HANDY     1^  O  L  U  M  E     EDITION 


THE 

MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS 


GEORGE  ELIOT 


BOSTON 

DANA    ESTES    &    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


SRLR 
URL 


1,-' 


lO 

GEORGE     HENRY     LEWES, 

/  GIVE   THIS  MS.  OF  MY  THIRD  BOOK, 

WRITTEN   IN   THIS   SIXTH    YEAR   OF   OUR   LIFE   TOGETHER,   AT   HOW.Y 

LODGE,   SOUTH    FIELD,   WANDSWORTH,   AND    FINISHED 

21  ST    MARCH.    lS6o. 


URL 

SRLF 


CONTENTS. 


Book  I. 
BOY  AND   GIRL. 

Chapter  Page 

I.    Outside  Dorlcote  Mill 3 

II.    Mr.  Tulliveb,  of  Dorlcote  Mill,  declares  uis  Reso- 
lution ABOUT  Tom 5 

III.  Mr.   Riley   gives    his   Advice    concerning   a    School 

FOR  Tom 12 

IV.  Tom  is  expected 26 

V.     Tom  comes  Home 31 

VI.     The  Aunts  and  Uncles  are  coming 42 

VII.     Enter  the  Aunts  and  Uncles 54 

VIII.     Mr.  Tulliver  shows  his  Weaker  Side       .....  79 

IX.     To  Garum  Firs 89 

X.     Maggie  behaves  worse  than  she  expected     ....  104 

XI.     Maggie  tries  to  run  away  from  her  Shadow    .     .■    .  Ill 

XII.     Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glegg  at  Home 123 

XIII.    Mr.  Tulliver  further  entangles  the  Skein  of  Life  137 


Book  II. 
SCHOOL-TIME. 

I.    Tom's  "First  Half" 141 

II.    The  Christmas  Holidays 163 

III.  The  New  Schoolfellow 171 

IV.  "The  Young  Idea" 177 

V.     Maggie's  Second  Visit 189 

VI.     A  Love-scene 194 

VII.     The  Golden  Gates  are  passed .  199 


n  CONTENTS. 


3Soofe  in. 
THE  DOWNFALL. 

Chaptee  Paoe 

I.    What  had  happened  at  Home 207 

II.    Mrs.  Tulliver's  Teraphim,  or  Household  Gods      .     .  214 

III.  The  Family  Council 219 

IV.  A  Vanishing  Gleam 235 

V.    Tom  applies  his  Knife  to  the  Oyster 239 

VI.    Tending  to  refute   the  Popular  Prejudice   against 

THE  Present  of  a  Pocket-knife 252 

VII.    How  a  Hen  takes  to  Stratagem 259 

VIII.    Daylight  on  the  Wreck 272 

IX.    An  Item  added  to  the  Family  Register 281 


Book  IV. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION. 

I.    A  Variation  of  Protestantism  unknown  to  Bossubt  .    287 

IT.     The  Torn  Nest  is  pierced  by  the  Thorns     ....     292 

III.    A  Voice  from  the  Past 298 


Book  V. 

WHEAT  AND  TARES. 

I.    In  the  Red  Deeps 314 

II.    Aunt  Glegg  learns  the  Breadth  of  Bob's  Thumb      .  327 

III.  The  Wavering  Balance 345 

IV.  Another  Love-scene 352 

V.     The  Cloven  Tree 359 

VI.     The  Hard-won  Triumph 371 

VII.    A  Day  of  Reckoning 376 


CONTENTS.  viv 

Book  VI. 
THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION. 

Chapter  p^^, 

I.    A  Duet  in  Paradise 384 

II.     First  Impressions 39j 

III.  Confidential  Moments 407 

IV.  Brother  and  Sister 4]^2 

V.     Showing  that  Tom  had  opened  the  Oyster  ....  420 

VI.     Illustrating  the  Laws  of  Attraction 424 

VII.     Philip  re-enters 435 

VIII.     Wakem  in  a  New  Light 4,50 

IX.     Charity  in  Plll-dress 457 

X.     The  Spell  seems  broken 468 

XL    In  the  Lane .  474 

XII.     A  Family  Party      .     .     , 48i 

XIII.  Borne  along  by  the  Tide 488 

XIV.  Waking ,    .  503 


Book  VII. 

THE  PINAL  RESCUE. 

I.    The  Return  to  the  Mill 515 

II.     St.  Ogg's  passes  Judgment 522 

III.  Showing    that   Old   Acquaintances   are   capable    of 

surprising  us 532 

IV.  Maggie  and  Lucy 53S 

V.     The  Last  Conflict 545 

Conclusion ,, 557 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Engraved  by  George  T.  Andrew. 

Maggie  Tulliver  in  the  Boat  .     .     F.  S.  Church  .   Frontispiece 

Maggie  and  Stephen W.  L.  Taylor      .    .    .    496 

Lucy  and  Maggie W.  St.  John  Harper     .     544 


THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 


BOOK   I. 

BOY    AND    GIRL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OUTSIDE   DOELCOTE   MILL. 

A  WIDE  plain,  where  the  broadening  Floss  hurries  on  be- 
tween its  green  banks  to  the  sea,  and  the  loving  tide,  rushing 
to  meet  it,  checks  its  passage  with  an  impetuous  embrace.  On 
this  mighty  tide  the  black  ships  —  laden  with  the  fresh-scented 
fir-planks,  with  rounded  sacks  of  oil-bearing  seed,  or  with  the 
dark  glitter  of  coal  —  are  borne  along  to  the  town  of  St.  Ogg's, 
which  shows  its  aged,  fluted  red  roofs  and  the  broad  gables  of 
its  wharves  between  the  low  wooded  hill  and  the  river-brink, 
tinging  the  water  with  a  soft  purple  hue  under  the  transient 
glance  of  this  February  sun.  Far  away  on  each  hand  stretch 
the  rich  pastures,  and  the  patches  of  dark  earth,  made  ready 
for  the  seed  of  broad-leaved  green  crops,  or  touched  already 
with  the  tint  of  the  tender-bladed  autumn-sown  corn.  There 
is  a  remnant  still  of  the  last  year's  golden  clusters  of  bee-hive 
ricks  rising  at  intervals  beyond  the  hedgerows  ;  and  every- 
where the  hedgerows  are  studded  with  trees  :  the  distant  ships 
seem  to  be  lifting  their  masts  and  stretching  their  red-brown 
sails  close  among  the  branches  of  the  spreading  ash.  Just  by 
the  red-roofed  town  the  tributary  Ripple  flows  with  a  lively 
current  into  the  Floss.  How  lovely  the  little  river  is,  with  its 
dark  changing  wavelets  !  It  seems  to  me  like  a  living  com- 
panion while  I  wander  along  the  bank  and  listen  to  its  low 


4  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

placid  voice,  as  to  tlie  voice  of  one  who  is  deaf  and  loving.  I 
remember  those  large  dipping  willows.  I  remember  the  stone 
bridge. 

And  this  is  Dorlcote  Mill.  I  must  stand  a  minute  or  two 
here  on  the  bridge  and  look  at  it,  though  the  clouds  are  threat- 
ening, and  it  is  far  on  in  the  afternoon.  Even  in  this  leafless 
time  of  departing  February  it  is  pleasant  to  look  at  —  perhaps 
the  chill  damp  season  adds  a  charm  to  the  trimly  kept  comfort- 
able dwelling-house,  as  old  as  the  elms  and  chestnuts  that 
shelter  it  from  the  northern  blast.  The  stream  is  brimful  now, 
and  lies  high  in  this  little  withy  plantation,  and  half  drowns 
the  grassy  fringe  of  the  croft  in  front  of  the  house.  As  I  look 
at  the  full  stream,  the  vivid  grass,  the  delicate  bright-green 
powder  softening  the  outline  of  the  great  trunks  and  branches 
that  gleam  from  under  the  bare  purple  boughs,  I  am  in  love 
with  moistness,  and  envy  the  white  ducks  that  are  dipping 
their  heads  far  into  the  water  here  among  the  withes,  unmind- 
ful of  the  awkward  appearance  they  make  in  the  drier  world 
above. 

The  rush  of  the  water,  and  the  booming  of  the  mill,  bring 
a  dreamy  deafness,  which  seems  to  heighten  the  peacefulness 
of  the  scene.  They  are  like  a  great  curtain  of  sound,  shutting 
one  out  from  the  world  beyond.  And  now  there  is  the  thun- 
der of  tlie  huge  covered  wagon  coming  home  with  sacks  of 
grain.  That  honest  wagoner  is  thinking  of  his  dinner,  getting 
sadly  dry  in  tlie  oven  at  this  late  hour ;  but  he  will  not  touch 
it  till  he  has  fed  his  horses,  —  the  strong,  submissive,  meek- 
eyed  beasts,  who,  I  fancy,  are  looking  mild  reproach  at  him 
from  between  their  blinkers,  that  he  should  crack  his  whip  at 
them  in  that  awful  manner  as  if  they  needed  that  hint !  See  how 
they  stretch  their  shoulders  up  the  slope  towards  the  bridge, 
with  all  the  more  energy  because  they  are  so  near  home.  Look 
at  their  grand  shaggy  feet  that  seem  to  grasp  the  firm  earth, 
at  the  patient  strength  of  their  necks,  bowed  under  the  heavy 
collar,  at  the  mighty  muscles  of  their  struggling  haunches  !  1 
should  like  well  to  hear  them  neigh  over  their  hardly -earned 
feed  of  corn,  and  see  them,  with  their  moist  necks  freed  from 
the  harness,  dipping  their  eager  nostrils  into  the  muddy  pond. 


BOY  AND  orRL.  5 

Now  they  are  on  the  bridge,  and  down  they  go  again  at  « 
swifter  pace,  and  the  arch  of  the  covered  wagon  disappears  at 
the  tm-ning  behind  the  trees. 

Now  I  can  turn  my  eyes  towards  the  mill  again,  and  watch 
the  unresting  wheel  sending  out  its  diamond  jets  of  water. 
That  little  girl  is  watching  it  too  :  she  has  been  standing  op. 
just  the  same  spot  at  the  edge  of  the  water  ever  since  I  paused 
on  the  bridge.  And  that  queer  white  cur  with  the  brown  ear 
seems  to  be  leaping  and  barking  in  ineffectual  remonstrance  witb 
the  wheel ;  perhaps  he  is  jealous,  because  his  playfellow  in  the 
beaver  bonnet  is  so  rapt  in  its  movement.  It  is  time  the  little 
playfellow  went  in,  I  think ;  and  there  is  a  very  bright  fire  to 
tempt  her :  the  red  light  shines  out  under  the  deepening  graj^ 
of  the  sky.  It  is  time,  too,  for  me  to  leave  off  resting  my  arm* 
on  the  cold  stone  of  this  bridge.  .  .  . 

Ah,  my  arms  are  really  benumbed.  I  have  been  pressing 
my  elbows  on  the  arms  of  my  chair,  and  dreaming  that  I  was 
standing  on  the  bridge  in  front  of  Dorlcote  Mill,  as  it  looked 
one  February  afternoon  many  years  ago.  Before  I  dozed  off. 
I  was  going  to  tell  you  what  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  were  talk- 
ing about,  as  they  sat  by  the  bright  fire  in  the  left-hand  par- 
lor, on  that  very  afternoon  I  have  been  dreaming  of. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

MR.    TULLIVER,    OF    DORLCOTE    MILL,    DECLARES    HIS 
RESOLUTION    ABOUT   TOM. 

"What  I  want,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver —" what  I 
want  is  to  give  Tom  a  good  eddication ;  an  eddication  as  '11  be 
a  bread  to  him.  That  was  what  I  was  thinking  of  when  I 
gave  notice  for  him  to  leave  the  academy  at  Lady  Day.  I 
mean  to  put  him  to  a  downright  good  school  at  Midsummer. 
The  two  years  at  th'  academy  'ud  ha'  done  well  enough,  if  I  'd 
meant  to  make  a  miller  and  farmer  of  him,  for  he 's  had  a  fine 
sight  more  schoolin'  nor  /  ever  got :  all  the  learnin'  mij  father 


6  THE   MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

ever  paid  for  was  a  bit  o'  birch  at  one  end  and  the  alphabet  at 
th'  other.  But  I  should  like  Tom  to  be  a  bit  of  a  scholard, 
so  as  he  might  be  up  to  the  tricks  o'  these  fellows  as  talk  fine 
and  write  with  a  flourish.  It  'ud  be  a  help  to  me  wi'  these 
lawsuits,  and  arbitrations,  and  things.  I  wouldn't  make  a 
downright  lawyer  o'  the  lad  —  I  should  be  sorry  for  him  to 
be  a  raskill  —  but  a  sort  o'  engineer,  or  a  surveyor,  or  an 
auctioneer  and  vallyer,  like  Eiley,  or  one  o'  them  smartish 
businesses  as  are  all  profits  and  no  outlay,  only  for  a  big 
watch-chain  and  a  high  stool.  They're  pretty  nigh  all  one, 
and  they  're  not  far  off  being  even  wi'  the  law,  /believe;  for 
Kiley  looks  Lawyer  Wakem  i'  the  face  as  hard  as  one  cat  looks 
another.     He 's  none  frightened  at  him." 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  speaking  to  his  wife,  a  blond  comely 
woman  in  a  fan-shaped  cap  (I  am  afraid  to  think  how  long 
it  is  since  fan-shaped  caps  were  worn  —  they  must  be  so  near 
coming  in  again.  At  that  time,  when  Mrs.  Tulliver  was 
nearly  forty,  they  were  new  at  St.  Ogg's,  and  considered 
sweet  things). 

<'  Well,  Mr.  Tulliver,  you  know  best :  I^ve  no  objections. 
But  had  n't  I  better  kill  a  couple  o'  fowl  and  have  th'  aunts 
and  uncles  to  dinner  next  week,  so  as  you  may  hear  what 
sister  Glegg  and  sister  Pullet  have  got  to  say  about  it  ? 
There 's  a  couple  o'  fowl  wants  killing ! " 

''  You  may  kill  every  fowl  i'  the  yard,  if  you  like,  Bessy ; 
but  I  shall  ask  neither  aunt  nor  uncle  what  I  'm  to  do  wi'  my 
own  lad,"  said  IMr.  Tulliver,  defiantly. 

"  Dear  heart !  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  shocked  at  this  san- 
guinary rhetoric,  "  how  can  you  talk  so,  Mr.  Tulliver  ?  But 
it 's  your  way  to  speak  disrespectful  o'  my  family ;  and  sister 
Glegg  throws  all  the  blame  upo'  me,  though  I  'm  sure  I  'm  as 
innocent  as  the  babe  unborn.  For  nobody  's  ever  heard  me 
say  as  it  was  n't  lucky  for  my  children  to  have  aunts  and 
uncles  as  can  live  independent.  Hcjwiver,  if  Tom  's  to  go  to 
a  new  school,  I  should  like  him  to  go  where  I  can  wash  him 
and  mend  him  ;  else  he  might  as  well  have  calico  as  linen, 
for  they  'd  be  one  as  yallow  as  th'  other  before  they  'd  been 
washed  half-a-dozen  times.     And  then,  when  the  box  is  goin' 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  • 

backards  and  forrards,  I  could  send  the  lad  a  cake,  or  a  pork- 
pie,  or  an  apple  ;  for  he  can  do  with  an  extry  bit,  bless  him, 
whether  they  stint  him  at  the  meals  or  no.  My  children  can 
eat  as  much  victuals  as  most,  thank  God." 

"  Well,  well,  we  won't  send  him  out  o'  reach  o'  the  carrier's 
cart,  if  other  things  fit  in,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  ''But  you 
must  n't  put  a  spoke  i'  the  wheel  about  the  washin',  if  we  can't 
get  a  school  near  enough.  That's  the  fault  I  have  to  find 
wi'  you,  Bessy ;  if  you  see  a  stick  i'  the  road,  you  're  allays 
thinkin'  you  can't  step  over  it.  You'd  want  me  not  to  hire  a 
good  wagoner,  'cause  he'd  got  a  mole  on  his  face." 

"  Dear  heart ! "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  in  mild  surprise,  "  when 
did  I  iver  make  objections  to  a  man  because  he  'd  got  a  mole 
on  his  face  ?  I  'm  sure  I  'm  rether  fond  o'  the  moles  ;  for  my 
brother,  as  is  dead  an'  gone,  had  a  mole  on  his  brow.  But  I 
can't  remember  your  iver  offering  to  hire  a  wagoner  with  a 
mole,  Mr.  Tulliver.  There  was  John  Gibbs  had  n't  a  mole  on 
his  face  no  more  nor  you  have,  an'  I  was  all  for  having  you 
hire  him  ;  an'  so  you  did  hire  him,  an'  if  he  had  n't  died  o'  th' 
inflammation,  as  we  paid  Dr.  TurnbuU  for  attending  him,  he  'd 
very  like  ha'  been  driving  the  wagon  now.  He  might  have 
a  mole  somewhere  out  o'  sight,  but  how  was  I  to  know  that, 
Mr.  Tulliver  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Bessy ;  I  did  n't  mean  justly  the  mole ;  I  meant 
it  to  stand  for  summat  else  ;  but  niver  mind  —  it 's  puzzling 
work,  talking  is.  What  I  'm  thinking  on,  is  how  to  find  the 
yight  sort  o'  school  to  send  Tom  to,  for  I  might  be  ta'en  in 
again,  as  I've  been  wi'  th'  academy.  I'll  have  nothing  to  do 
wi'  a  'cademy  again :  whativer  school  I  send  Tom  to,  it  shan't 
be  a  'cademy ;  it  shall  be  a  place  where  the  lads  spend  their 
time  i'  summat  else  besides  blacking  the  family's  shoes,  and 
getting  up  the  potatoes.  It 's  an  uncommon  puzzling  thing  to 
know  what  school  to  pick." 

Mr.  Tulliver  paused  a  minute  or  two,  and  dived  with  both 
hands  into  his  breeches-pockets  as  if  he  hoped  to  find  some 
suggestion  there.  Apparently  he  was  not  disappointed,  for 
he  presently  said,  "I  know  what  I'll  do  — I'll  talk  it  over 
wi'  Riley :  he 's  coming  to-morrow,  t'  arbitrate  about  the  dam." 


8  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"Well,  Mr.  Tulliver,  I've  j)ut  the  sheets  out  for  the  best 
bed;  and  Kezia  's  got  'em  hanging  at  the  fire.  They  are  n't 
the  best  sheets,  but  they  're  good  enough  for  anybody  to  sleep 
in,  be  he  who  he  will ;  for  as  for  them  best  Holland  sheets,  I 
should  repent  buying  'em,  only  they  '11  do  to  lay  us  out  in. 
An'  if  you  was  to  die  to-morrow,  Mr.  Tulliver,  they're  man- 
gled beautiful,  an'  all  ready,  an'  smell  o'  lavender  as  it  'ud  be 
a  pleasure  to  lay  'em  out ;  an'  they  lie  at  the  left-hand  corner 
o'  the  big  oak  linen-chest  at  the  back :  not  as  I  should  trust 
anybody  to  look  'em  out  but  myself." 

As  Mrs.  Tulliver  uttered  the  last  sentence,  she  drew  a  bright 
bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  and  singled  out  one,  rubbing 
her  thumb  and  finger  up  and  down  it  with  a  placid  smile  while 
she  looked  at  the  clear  fire.  If  Mr.  Tulliver  had  been  a  sus- 
ceptible man  in  his  conjugal  relation,  he  might  have  supposed 
that  she  drew  out  the  key  to  aid  her  imagination  in  anticipat- 
ing the  moment  when  he  would  be  in  a  state  to  justify  the 
production  of  the  best  Holland  sheets.  Happily  he  was  not 
so ;  he  was  only  susceptible  in  respect  of  his  right  to  water- 
power  ;  moreover,  he  had  the  marital  habit  of  not  listening 
very  closely,  and  since  his  mention  of  Mr.  Riley,  had  been 
apparently  occupied  in  a  tactile  examination  of  his  woollen 
stockings, 

"  I  think  I  've  hit  it,  Bessy,"  was  his  first  remark  after  a 
short  silence.  "  Riley 's  as  likely  a  man  as  any  to  know  o' 
some  school ;  he  's  had  schooling  himself,  an'  goes  about  to  all 
sorts  o'  places  —  arbitratin'  and  vallyin'  and  that.  And  we 
shall  have  time  to  talk  it  over  to-morrow  night  when  the  busi- 
ness is  done.  I  want  Tom  to  be  such  a  sort  o'  man  as  Riley, 
you  know  — as  can  talk  pretty  nigh  as  well  as  if  it  was  all 
wrote  out  for  him,  and  knows  a  good  lot  o'  words  as  don't 
mean  much,  so  as  you  can't  lay  hold  of  'em  i'  law ;  and  a  good 
solid  knowledge  o'  business  too." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "  so  far  as  talking  proper,  and 
knowing  everything,  and  walking  with  a  bend  in  his  back,  and 
setting  his  hair  up,  I  should  n't  mind  the  lad  being  brought  up 
to  that.  But  them  fine-talking  men  from  the  big  towns  mostly 
wear  the  false  shirt-fronts  ;  they  wear  a  frill  till  it 's  all  a  mess 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  9 

and  then  hide  it  with  a  bib ;  I  know  Riley  does.  And  tlien, 
if  Tom's  to  go  and  live  at  Mudport,  like  Kiley,  he'll  have  a 
house  with  a  kitchen  hardly  big  enough  to  turn  in,  an  niver  get 
a  fresh  egg  for  his  breakfast,  an'  sleep  up  three  pair  o'  stairs 
—  or  four,  for  what  I  know  —  and  be  bui-nt  to  death  before  he 
can  get  down." 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  I  've  no  thoughts  of  his  going 
to  Mudport :  I  mean  him  to  set  up  his  office  at  St.  Ogg's,  close 
by  uS,  an'  live  at  home.  But,"  continued  Mr.  Tulliver  after  a 
pause,  "  what  I  'm  a  bit  afraid  on  is,  as  Tom  has  n't  got  the 
right  sort  o'  brains  for  a  smart  fellow.  I  doubt  he 's  a  bit 
slowish.     He  takes  after  your  family,  Bessy." 

"  Yes,  that  he  does,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  accepting  the  last 
proposition  entirely  on  its  own  merits  ;  "  he 's  wonderful  for 
liking  a  deal  o'  salt  in  his  broth.  That  was  my  brother's  way, 
and  my  father's  before  him." 

"  It  seems  a  bit  of  a  pity,  though,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  as  the 
lad  should  take  after  the  mother's  side  istead  o'  the  little  wench. 
That 's  the  worst  on  't  wi'  the  crossing  o'  breeds  :  you  can  never 
justly  calkilate  what  '11  come  on 't.  The  little  un  takes  after 
my  side,  now  :  she  's  twice  as  'cute  as  Tom.  Too  'cute  for  a 
woman,  I  'm  afraid,"  continued  Mr.  Tulliver,  turning  his  head 
dubiously  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other.  "  It 's  no 
mischief  much  while  she 's  a  little  un,  but  an  over-'cute  woman 
's  no  better  nor  a  long-tailed  sheep  —  she'll  fetch  none  the 
bigger  price  for  that." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  mischief  while  she  's  a  little  un,  Mr.  Tulliver,  for 
it  all  runs  to  naughtiness.  How  to  keep  her  in  a  clean  pinafore 
two  hours  together  passes  my  cunning.  An'  now  you  put  me 
i'  mind,"  continued  Mrs.  Tulliver,  rising  and  going  to  the  win- 
dow, "  I  don't  know  whore  she  is  now,  an'  it 's  pretty  nigh  tea- 
time.  Ah,  I  thought  so  —  wanderin'  up  an'  down  by  the 
water,  like  a  wild  thing:  she'll  tumble  in  some  day." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  rapped  the  window  sharply,  beckoned,  and 
shook  her  head,  —  a  process  which  she  repeated  more  than  once 
before  she  returned  to  her  chair. 

"  You  talk  o'  'cuteness,  Mr.  Tulliver,"  she  observed  as  she 
sat  down,  "but   I'm  sure  the  child's  half  an  idiot   i'  some 


10  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

thiugs  ;  for  if  I  send  her  up-stairs  to  fetch  anything,  she  forgets 
what  she  's  gone  for,  an'  perhaps  'ull  sit  down  on  the  floor  i' 
the  sunshine  an'  plait  her  hair  an'  sing  to  herself  like  a  Bedlam 
creatur',  all  the  while  I  'm  waiting  for  her  down-stairs.  That 
niver  run  i'  my  family,  thank  God,  no  more  nor  a  brown  skin 
as  makes  her  look  like  a  mulatter.  I  don't  like  to  fly  i'  the 
face  o'  Providence,  but  it  seems  hard  as  I  should  have  but  one 
gell,  an'  her  so  comical." 

"Pooh,  nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver ;  "  she 's  a  straight 
black-eyed  wench  as  anybody  need  wish  to  see.  I  don't  know 
i'  wliat  she  's  behind  other  folks's  children ;  and  she  can  read 
almost  as  well  as  the  parson." 

"  But  her  hair  won't  curl  all  I  can  do  with  it,  and  she  's  so 
franzy  about  having  it  put  i'  paper,  and  I  've  such  work  as 
never  was  to  make  her  stand  and  have  it  pinched  with  th' 
irons." 

"  Cut  it  off  —  cut  it  off  short,"  said  the  father,  rashly. 

"  How  can  you  talk  so,  Mr.  Tulliver  ?  She 's  too  big  a  gell, 
gone  nine,  and  tall  of  her  age,  to  have  her  hair  cut  short ;  an' 
there  's  her  cousin  Lucy 's  got  a  row  o'  curls  round  her  head,  an' 
not  a  hair  out  o'  place.  It  seems  hard  as  my  sister  Deane 
should  have  that  pretty  child  ;  I  'm  sure  Lucy  takes  more  after 
me  nor  my  own  child  does.  Maggie,  Maggie,"  continued  the 
mother,  in  a  tone  of  half-coaxing  fretfulness,  as  this  small  mis- 
take of  nature  entered  the  room,  "  where  's  the  use  o'  my  tell- 
ing you  to  keep  away  from  the  water  ?  You  '11  tumble  in  and 
be  drownded  some  day,  an'  then  you  '11  be  sorry  you  did  n't  do 
as  mother  told  you." 

Maggie's  hair,  as  she  threw  off  her  bonnet,  painfully  con- 
firmed her  mother's  accusation :  Mrs.  Tulliver,  desiring  her 
daughter  to  have  a  curled  crop,  "  like  other  folks's  children," 
had  had  it  cut  too  short  in  front  to  be  pushed  behind  the  ears ; 
and  as  it  was  usually  straight  an  hour  after  it  had  been  taken 
out  of  papei',  Maggie  was  incessantly  tossing  her  head  to  keep 
the  dark  heavy  locks  out  of  lier  gleaming  black  eyes  —  an  action 
which  gave  her  very  much  the  air  of  a  small  Shetland  pony. 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  Maggie,  what  are  you  thinkin'   of,  to 
throw  your  bonnet  down  there  ?     Take  it  upstairs,  there 's  a 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  11 

good  gell,  an'  let  your  liair  be  brushed,  an'  put  your  other  pina- 
fore on,  an'  change  your  shoes  —  do,  for  shame ;  an'  come  an' 
go  on  with  your  patchwork,  like  a  little  lady." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  vehemently  cross  tone,  "  I 
don't  ivant  to  do  my  patchwork." 

"  What !  not  your  pretty  patchwork,  to  make  a  counterpane 
for  your  aunt  Glegg  ?  " 

"It's  foolish  work,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  toss  of  her  mane, — 
'<  tearing  things  to  pieces  to  sew  'em  together  again.  And  I 
don't  want  to  do  anything  for  my  aunt  Glegg  —  I  don't  like 
her." 

Exit  Maggie,  dragging  her  bonnet  by  the  string,  while  Mr. 
Tulliver  laughs  audibly. 

"  I  wonder  at  you,  as  you  '11  laugh  at  her,  Mr.  Tulliver," 
said  the  mother,  with  feeble  f retfuluess  iu  her  tone.  "  You 
encourage  her  i'  naughtiness.  An'  her  aunts  will  have  it  as 
it 's  me  spoils  her." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  what  is  called  a  good-tempered  person  — 
never  cried,  when  she  was  a  baby,  on  any  slighter  ground  than 
hunger  and  pins ;  and  from  the  cradle  upwards  had  been 
healthy,  fair,  plump,  and  dull-witted ;  in  short,  the  flower  of 
her  family  for  beauty  and  amiability.  But  milk  and  mildness 
are  not  the  best  things  for  keeping,  and  when  they  turn  only 
a  little  sour,  they  may  disagree  with  young  stomachs  seriously. 
1  have  often  wondered  whether  those  early  Madonnas  of  Ra- 
phael, with  the  blond  faces  and  somewhat  stupid  expression, 
kept  their  placidity  undisturbed  when  their  strong-limbed, 
strong-willed  boys  got  a  little  too  old  to  do  without  clothing. 
I  think  they  must  have  been  given  to  feeble  remonstrance, 
getting  more  and  more  peevish  as  it  became  more  and  mora 
ineffectual. 


12  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

MB.   RILEY   GIVES   HIS   ADVICE  CONCERNING  A  SCHOOL  FOR  TOM. 

The  gentleman  in  tlie  ample  white  cravat  and  shirt-frill, 
taking  his  brandy-aud-water  so  pleasantly  with  his  good  friend 
Tulliver,  is  Mr.  E-iley,  a  gentleman  with  a  waxen  complexion 
and  fat  hands,  rather  highly  educated  for  an  auctioneer  and 
appraiser,  but  large-hearted  enough  to  show  a  great  deal  of 
bonhomie  towards  simple  country  acquaintances  of  hospitable 
habits.  Mr.  Riley  spoke  of  such  acquaintances  kindly  as 
''people  of   the  old  school." 

The  conversation  had  come  to  a  pause.  Mr.  Tulliver,  not 
without  a  particular  reason,  had  abstained  from  a  seventh  re- 
cital of  the  cool  retort  by  which  Riley  had  shown  himself  too 
many  for  Dix,  and  how  Wakem  had  had  his  comb  cut  for  once 
in  his  life,  now  the  business  of  the  dam  had  been  settled  by 
arbitration,  and  how  there  never  would  have  been  any  dispute 
at  all  about  the  height  of  water  if  everybody  was  what  they 
should  be,  and  Old  Harry  had  n't  made  the  lawyers.  Mr.  Tul- 
liver was,  on  the  whole,  a  man  of  safe  traditional  opinions  ; 
but  on  one  or  two  points  he  had  trusted  to  his  unassisted  in- 
tellect, and  had  arrived  at  several  questionable  conclusions ; 
among  the  rest,  that  rats,  weevils,  and  lawyers  were  created 
by  Old  Harry.  Unhappily  he  had  no  one  to  tell  him  that  this 
was  rampant  Manichseism,  else  he  might  have  seen  his  error. 
But  to-day  it  was  clear  that  the  good  principle  was  trium- 
phant :  this  affair  of  the  water-power  had  been  a  tangled  busi- 
ness somehow,  for  all  it  seemed  —  look  at  it  one  way  —  as  plain 
as  water 's  water ;  but,  big  a  puzzle  as  it  was,  it  had  n't  got  the 
better  of  Riley.  Mr.  Tulliver  took  his  brandy-and-water  a 
little  stronger  than  usual,  and,  for  a  man  who  might  be  sup- 
posed to  have  a  few  hundreds  lying  idle  at  his  banker's,  was 
rather  incautiously  open  in  expressing  his  high  estimate  of 
his  friend's  business  talents. 

But  the  dam  was  a  subject  of  conversation  that  would  keepj 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  13 

it  could  always  be  taken  up  again  at  the  same  point,  and  ex- 
actly in  the  same  condition ;  and  there  was  another  subject,  as 
you  know,  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver  was  in  pressing  want  of  Mr. 
Eiley's  advice.  This  was  his  particular  reason  for  remaining 
silent  for  a  short  space  after  his  last  draught,  and  rubbing  his 
knees  in  a  meditative  manner.  He  was  not  a  man  to  make  an 
abrupt  transition.  This  was  a  puzzling  world,  as  he  often  said, 
and  if  you  drive  your  wagon  in  a  hurry,  you  may  light  on  an 
awkward  corner.  Mr.  Riley,  meanwhile,  was  not  impatient. 
Why  should  he  be  ?  Even  Hotspur,  one  would  think,  must 
have  been  patient  in  his  slippers  on  a  warm  hearth,  taking 
copious  snuff,  and  sipping  gratuitous  brandy -and-water. 

"  There  's  a  thing  I  've  got  i'  my  head,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver  at 
last,  in  rather  a  lower  tone  than  usual,  as  he  turned  his  head 
and  looked  steadfastly  at  his  companion. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Mr.  Eiley,  in  a  tone  of  mild  interest.  He  was 
a  man  with  heavy  waxen  eyelids  and  high-arched  eyebrows, 
looking  exactly  the  same  under  all  circumstances.  This  im- 
movability of  face,  and  the  habit  of  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff 
before  he  gave  an  answer,  made  him  trebly  oracular  to  Mr. 
Tulliver. 

"  It 's  a  very  particular  thing,"  he  went  on ;  "  it 's  about  my 
boy  Tom." 

At  the  sound  of  this  name,  Maggie,  who  was  seated  on  a 
low  stool  close  by  the  fire,  with  a  large  book  open  on  her  lap, 
shook  her  heavy  hair  back  and  looked  up  gagerly.  There 
were  few  sounds  that  roused  Maggie  when  she  was  dreaming 
over  her  book,  but  Tom's  name  served  as  well  as  the  shrillest 
whistle  :  in  an  instant  she  was  on  the  watch,  with  gleaming 
eyes,  like  a  Skye  terrier  suspecting  mischief,  or  at  all  events 
determined  to  fly  at  any  one  who  threatened  it  towards  Tom. 

"You  see,  I  want  to  put  him  to  a  new  school  at  Midsummer," 
said  Mr.  Tulliver ;  "  he  's  comin'  away  from  the  'cademy  at 
Lady  Day,  an'  I  shall  let  him  run  loose  for  a  quarter;  but 
after  that  I  want  to  send  him  to  a  downright  good  school, 
where  they  '11  make  a  scholard  of  him." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Eiley,  "  there  's  no  greater  advantage  you 
can  give  him  than  a  good  education.     Not,"  he  added,  with 


14  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

polite  significance  —  "  not  that  a  man  can't  be  an  excellent 
miller  and  farmer,  and  a  shrewd  sensible  fellow  into  the 
bargain,  without  much  help  from  the  schoolmaster." 

"I  believe  you/'  said  Mr.  TuUiver,  winking,  and  turning 
his  head  on  one  side,  "but  that's  where  it  is.  I  don't  mean 
Tom  to  be  a  miller  and  farmer.  I  see  no  fun  i'  that :  why,  if 
I  made  him  a  miller  an'  farmer,  he  'd  be  expectin'  to  take  to 
the  mill  an'  the  land,  an'  a-hinting  at  me  as  it  was  time  for 
me  to  lay  by  an'  think  o'  my  latter  end.  Nay,  nay,  I  've  seen 
enough  o'  that  wi'  sons.  I  '11  never  pull  my  coat  off  before  I 
go  to  bed.  I  shall  give  Tom  an  eddication  an'  put  him  to  a 
business,  as  he  may  make  a  nest  for  himself,  an'  not  want  to 
push  me  out  o'  mine.  Pretty  well  if  he  gets  it  when  I  'm  dead 
an'  gone.  I  shan't  be  put  off  wi'  spoon-meat  afore  I  've  lost 
my  teeth." 

This  was  evidently  a  point  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver  felt 
strongly,  and  the  impetus  which  had  given  unusual  rapidity 
and  emphasis  to  his  speech,  showed  itself  still  unexhausted 
for  some  minutes  afterwards,  in  a  defiant  motion  of  the  head 
from  side  to  side,  and  an  occasional  "Nay,  nay,"  like  a  sub- 
siding growl. 

These  angry  symptoms  were  keenly  observed  by  Maggie, 
and  cut  her  to  the  quick.  Tom,  it  appeared,  was  supposed 
capable  of  turning  his  father  out  of  doors,  and  of  making  the 
future  in  some  way  tragic  by  his  wickedness.  This  was  not 
to  be  borne ;  and  Maggie  jumped  up  from  her  stool,  forgetting 
all  about  her  heavy  book,  which  fell  with  a  bang  within  the 
fender ;  and  going  up  between  her  father's  knees,  said,  in  a 
half-crying,  half-indignant  voice  — 

"  Father,  Tom  would  n't  be  naughty  to  you  ever ;  I  know 
he  would  n't." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  out  of  the  room  superintending  a  choice 
supper-dish,  and  IMr.  Tulliver's  heart  was  touched ;  so  Maggie 
was  not  scolded  about  the  book.  Mr.  Riley  quietly  picked  it 
up  and  looked  at  it,  while  the  father  laughed  with  a  certain 
tenderness  in  his  hard-lined  face,  and  patted  his  little  girl  on 
the  back,  and  then  held  her  hands  and  kept  her  between  his 
knees. 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  15 

"  What !  they  must  n't  say  any  harm  o'  Tom,  eh  ?  "  said  Mr, 
Tulliver,  looking  at  Maggie  with  a  twinkling  eye.  Then,  in  a 
lower  voice,  turning  to  Mr.  Eiley,  as  though  Maggie  could  n't 
hear,  "  She  understands  what  one  's  talking  about  so  as  never 
was.  And  you  should  hear  her  read  —  straight  off,  as  if  she 
knowed  it  all  beforehand.  And  allays  at  her  book  !  But  it 's 
bad  —  it 's  bad,"  Mr,  Tulliver  added,  sadly,  checking  this  blam- 
able  exultation  ;  "  a  woman  's  no  business  wi'  being  so  clever ; 
it  '11  turn  to  trouble,  I  doubt.  But,  bless  you  !  "  —  here  the 
exultation  was  clearly  recovering  the  mastery  —  "  she  '11  read 
the  books  and  understand  'em  better  nor  half  the  folks  as  are 
growed  up." 

Maggie's  cheeks  began  to  flush  with  triumphant  excitement : 
she  thought  Mr.  Eiley  would  have  a  respect  for  her  now ;  it 
had  been  evident  that  he  thought  nothing  of  her  before. 

Mr.  Biley  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book,  and  she 
could  make  nothing  of  his  face,  with  its  high-arched  eyebrows ; 
but  he  presently  looked  at  her  and  said  — 

"  Come,  come  and  tell  me  something  about  this  book ;  here 
are  some  pictures  —  I  want  to  know  what  they  mean." 

Maggie  with  deepening  color  went  without  hesitation  to 
Mr.  Riley's  elbow  and  looked  over  the  book,  eagerly  seizing  one 
corner,  and  tossing  back  her  mane,  while  she  said  — 

"  Oh,  I  '11  tell  you  what  that  means.  It 's  a  dreadful  pic- 
ture, isn't  it?  But  I  can't  help  looking  at  it.  That  old 
woman  in  the  water 's  a  witch  —  they  've  put  her  in  to  find 
out  whether  she  's  a  witch  or  no,  and  if  she  swims  she  's  a 
witch,  and  if  she  's  drowned  —  and  killed,  you  know  —  she  's 
innocent,  and  not  a  witch,  but  only  a  poor  silly  old  woman. 
But  what  good  would  it  do  her  then,  you  know,  when  she  was 
drowned  ?  Only,  I  suppose,  she  'd  go  to  heaven,  and  God 
would  make  it  up  to  her.  And  this  dreadful  blacksmith  with 
his  arms  akimbo,  laughing  —  oh,  is  n't  he  ugly  ?  —  I  '11  tell 
you  what  he  is.  He  's  the  devil  really/  "  (here  Maggie's  voice 
became  louder  and  more  emphatic),  "and  not  a  right  black- 
smith ;  for  the  devil  takes  the  shape  of  wicked  men,  and  walks 
about  and  sets  people  doing  wicked  things,  and  he 's  oftener  in 
the  shape  of  a  bad  man  than  any  other,  because,  you  know,  if 


16  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

people  saw  he  was  the  devil,  and  he  roared  at  'em,  they  'd  run 
away,  and  he  could  n't  make  'em  do  what  he  pleased." 

Mr.  Tulliver  had  listened  to  this  exposition  of  Maggie's 
with  petrifying  wonder. 

"  Why,  what  book  is  it  the  wench  has  got  hold  on  ?  "  he 
burst  out  at  last. 

" '  The  History  of  the  Devil,'  by  Daniel  Defoe  ;  not  quite 
the  right  book  for  a  little  girl,"  said  Mr.  Eiley,  "How  came 
it  among  your  books,  Tulliver  ?  " 

Maggie  looked  hurt  and  discouraged,  while  her  father 
said  — 

"Why,  it's  one  o'  the  books  I  bought  at  Partridge's  sale. 
They  was  all  bound  alike — it's  a  good  binding,  you  see  — 
and  I  thought  they  'd  be  all  good  books.  There  's  Jeremy 
Taylor's  'Holy  Living  and  Dying'  among  'em;  I  read  in  it 
often  of  a  Sunday  "  (Mr.  Tulliver  felt  somehow  a  familiarity 
with  that  great  writer  because  his  name  was  Jeremy) ;  '•  and 
there's  a  lot  more  of  'em,  sermons  mostly,  I  think;  but 
they  've  all  got  the  same  covers,  and  I  thought  they  v^^ere  all 
o'  one  sample,  as  you  may  say.  But  it  seems  one  mustn't 
judge  by  th'  outside.     This  is  a  puzzliu'  world." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Riley,  in  an  admonitory  patronizing  tone, 
as  he  patted  Maggie  on  the  head,  "  I  advise  you  to  put  by  the 
'History  of  the  Devil,'  and  read  some  prettier  book.  Have 
you  no  prettier  books  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Maggie,  reviving  a  little  in  the  desire  to 
vindicate  the  variety  of  her  reading,  "  I  know  the  reading  in 
this  book  is  n't  pretty  —  but  I  like  the  pictures,  and  I  make 
«tories  to  the  pictures  out  of  my  own  head,  you  know.  But 
I  've  got  '  ^sop's  Fables,'  and  a  book  about  Kangaroos  and 
things,  and  the  '  Pilgrim's  Progress  '  —  " 

"  Ah,  a  beautiful  book,"  said  Mr.  Eiley ;  "  you  can't  read  a 
better." 

"  Well,  but  there  's  a  great  deal  about  the  devil  in  that," 
said  Maggie,  triumphantly,  "and  I'll  show  you  the  picture  of 
him  in  his  true  shape,  as  he  fought  with  Christian." 

Maggie  ran  in  an  instant  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  jumped 
on  a  chair,  and  reached  down  from  the  small  bookcase  a  shabby 


BOY  AND   GIEL.  17 

old  copy  of  Bunyan,  which  opened  at  once,  without  the  least 
trouble  of  search,  at  the  picture  she  wanted. 

"  Here  he  is,"  she  said,  running  back  to  Mr.  Riley,  *^  and 
Tom  colored  him  for  me  with  his  paints  when  he  was  at  home 
last  holidays  —  the  body  all  black,  you  know,  and  the  eyes  red, 
like  fire,  because  he  's  all  fire  inside,  and  it  shines  out  at  his 
eyes." 

"  Go,  go ! "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  peremptorily,  beginning  to 
feel  rather  uncomfortable  at  these  free  remarks  on  the  personal 
appearance  of  a  being  powerful  enough  to  create  lawyers ; 
"  shut  up  the  book,  and  let 's  hear  no  more  o'  such  talk.  It  is 
as  I  thought  —  the  child  'uil  learn  more  mischief  nor  good  wi' 
the  books.     Go,  go  and  see  after  your  mother." 

Maggie  shut  up  the  book  at  once,  with  a  sense  of  disgrace, 
but  not  being  inclined  to  see  after  her  mother,  she  com- 
promised the  matter  by  going  into  a  dark  corner  behind  her 
father's  chair,  and  nursing  her  doll,  towards  which  she  had  an 
occasional  fit  of  fondness  in  Tom's  absence,  neglecting  its 
toilet,  but  lavishing  so  many  warm  kisses  on  it  that  the  waxen 
cheeks  had  a  wasted  unhealthy  appearance. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  on't?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  as 
Maggie  retired.  "It 's  a  pity  but  what  she  'd  been  the  lad  — 
she  'd  ha'  been  a  match  for  the  lawyers,  she  would.  It 's  the 
wonderful'st  thing  "  —  here  he  lowered  his  voice  —  '•  as  I 
picked  the  mother  because  she  was  n't  o'er-'cute  —  bein'  a 
good-looking  woman  too,  an'  come  of  a  rare  family  for  man- 
aging ;  but  I  picked  her  from  her  sisters  o'  purpose,  'cause  she 
was  a  bit  weak,  like  ;  for  I  was  n't  agoin'  to  be  told  the  rights 
o'  things  by  my  own  fireside.  But  you  see  when  a  man  's  got 
brains  himself,  there 's  no  knowing  where  they  '11  run  to ;  an' 
a  pleasant  sort  o'  soft  woman  may  go  on  breeding  you  stupid 
lads  and  'cute  wenches,  till  it 's  like  as  if  the  world  was  turned 
topsy-turvy.     It 's  an  uncommon  puzzlin'  thing." 

Mr.  Riley's  gravity  gave  way,  and  he  shook  a  little  under 
the  application  of  his  pinch  of  snuff,  before  he  said  — 

"  But  your  lad 's  not  stupid,  is  he  ?  I  saw  him,  when  I 
was  here  last,  busy  making  fishing-tackle  ;  he  seemed  quite  uji 
to  it." 

roL.  II. 


18  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Well,  he  is  n't  not  to  say  stupid  —  lie 's  got  a  notion  o' 
things  out  o'  door,  an'  a  sort  o'  common-sense,  as  he  'd  lay  hold 
o'  things  by  the  right  handle.  But  he 's  slow  with  his  tongue, 
you  see,  and  he  reads  but  poorly,  and  can't  abide  the  books, 
and  spells  all  wrong,  they  tell  me,  an'  as  shy  as  can  be  wi' 
strangers,  an'  you  never  hear  him  say  'cute  things  like  the 
little  wench.  Now,  what  I  want  is  to  send  him  to  a  school 
where  they  '11  make  him  a  bit  nimble  with  his  tongue  and  his 
pen,  and  make  a  smart  chap  of  him.  I  want  my  son  to  be 
even  wi'  these  fellows  as  have  got  the  start  o'  me  with  having 
better  schooling.  Not  but  what,  if  the  world  had  been  left  as 
God  made  it,  I  could  ha'  seen  my  way,  and  held  my  own  wi' 
the  best  of  'em ;  but  things  have  got  so  twisted  round  and 
wrapped  up  i'  unreasonable  words,  as  are  n't  a  bit  like  'em, 
as  I  'm  clean  at  fault,  often  an'  often.  Everything  winds 
about  so  —  the  more  straightforrard  you  are,  the  more  you  're 
puzzled." 

Mr.  Tulliver  took  a  draught,  swallowed  it  slowly,  and  shook 
his  head  in  a  melancholy  manner,  conscious  of  exemplifying 
the  truth  that  a  perfectly  sane  intellect  is  hardly  at  home  in 
this  insane  world. 

"You're  quite  in  the  right  of  it,  Tulliver,"  observed  Mr. 
Riley.  "  Better  spend  an  extra  hundred  or  two  on  your  son's 
education,  than  leave  it  him  in  your  will.  I  know  I  should 
have  tried  to  do  so  by  a  son  of  mine,  if  I  'd  had  one,  though, 
God  knows,  I  have  n't  your  ready-money  to  play  with,  Tulliver ; 
and  I  have  a  houseful  of  daughters  into  the  bargain." 

"I  dare  say,  now,  you  know  of  a  school  as  'ud  be  jast  the 
thing  for  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  not  diverted  from  his  pur- 
pose by  any  sympathy  with  Mr.  E-iley's  deficiency  of  ready 
cash. 

Mr.  Riley  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  kept  Mr.  Tulliver  in 
suspense  by  a  silence  that  seemed  deliberative,  before  he 
said — • 

"  I  know  of  a  very  fine  chance  for  any  one  that 's  got  the 
necessary  money,  and  that's  what  you  have,  Tulliver.  The 
fact  is,  I  would  n't  recommend  any  friend  of  mine  to  send  a 
boy  to  a  regular  school,  if  he  could  afford  to  do  better.     But 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  19 

if  any  one  wanted  his  boy  to  get  superior  instruction  and 
training,  where  he  would  be  the  companion  of  his  master,  and 
that  master  a  first-rate  fellow  —  I  know  his  man.  I  would  n't 
mention  the  chance  to  everybody,  because  I  don't  think  every- 
body would  succeed  in  getting  it,  if  he  were  to  try ;  but  I 
mention  it  to  you,  Tulliver  —  between  ourselves." 

The  fixed  inquiring  glance  with  which  Mr.  Tulliver  had  been 
watching  his  friend's  oracular  face  became  quite  eager. 

"  Ay,  now,  let 's  hear,"  he  said,  adjusting  himself  in  his 
chair  with  the  complacency  of  a  person  who  is  thought  worthy 
of  important  communications. 

"  He 's  an  Oxford  man,"  said  Mr.  Riley,  sententiously,  shut- 
ting his  mouth  close,  and  looking  at  Mr.  Tulliver  to  observe 
the  effect  of  this  stimulatinp-  information. 

"  What !  a  parson  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Yes,  and  an  M.  A.  The  bishop,  I  understand,  thinks  very 
highly  of  him :  why,  it  was  the  bishop  who  got  him  his  present 
curacy." 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  to  whom  one  thing  was  as  won- 
derful as  another  concerning  these  unfamiliar  phenomena. 
"  But  what  can  he  want  wi'  Tom,  then  ? " 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  he 's  fond  of  teaching,  and  wishes  to 
keep  up  his  studies,  and  a  clergyman  has  but  little  opportunity 
for  that  in  his  parochial  duties.  He  's  willing  to  take  one  or 
two  boys  as  pupils  to  fill  up  his  time  profitably.  The  boys 
would  be  quite  of  the  family  —  the  finest  thing  in  the  world 
for  them ;  under  Stelling's  eye  continually." 

"  But  do  you  think  they  'd  give  the  poor  lad  twice  o'  pud- 
ding ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  was  now  in  her  place  again. 
"  He  's  such  a  boy  for  pudding  as  never  was ;  an'  a  growing 
boy  like  that  —  it 's  dreadful  to  think  o'  their  stintin'  him." 

"  And  what  money  'ud  he  want  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  whose 
instinct  told  him  that  the  services  of  this  admirable  M.  A. 
would  bear  a  high  price. 

"  Why,  I  know  of  a  clergyman  who  asks  a  hundred  and 
fifty  with  his  youngest  pupils,  and  he  's  not  to  be  mentioned 
with  Stelling,  the  man  I  speak  of.  I  know,  on  good  authority, 
that  one  of  the  chief  people  at  Oxford  said,  '  Stelling  might 


20  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

get  the  highest  honors  if  he  chose.'  But  he  did  n't  care  about 
university  honors.     He  's  quiet  man  —  not  noisy," 

"  Ah,  a  deal  better  —  a  deal  better,"  said  Mr.  TuUiver ; 
"  but  a  hundred  and  j&fty  's  an  uncomiuou  price.  I  never 
thought  o'  payin'  so  much  as  that." 

"  A  good  education,  let  me  tell  you,  Tulliver  —  a  good  edu- 
cation is  cheap  at  the  money.  But  Stelling  is  moderate  in  his 
terms  —  he  's  not  a  grasping  man.  I  've  no  doubt  he  'd  take 
your  boy  at  a  hundred,  and  that 's  what  you  would  n't  get 
many  other  clergymen  to  do.  I  '11  write  to  him  about  it,  if 
you  like." 

Mr.  Tulliver  rubbed  his  knees,  and  looked  at  the  carpet  in  a 
meditative  manner. 

*'  But  belike  he  's  a  bachelor,"  observed  Mrs.  Tulliver  in 
the  interval,  "  an'  I  've  no  opinion  o'  housekeepers.  There 
was  my  brother,  as  is  dead  an'  gone,  had  a  housekeeper  once, 
an'  she  took  half  the  feathers  out  o'  the  best  bed,  an'  packed 
'em  up  an'  sent  'em  away.  An'  it 's  unknown  the  linen  she 
made  away  with  —  Stott  her  name  was.  It  'ud  break  my 
heart  to  send  Tom  where  there  's  a  housekeeper,  an'  I  hope 
you  won't  think  of  it,  Mr.  Tulliver." 

"  You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  on  that  score,  Mrs. 
Tulliver,"  said  Mr.  Eiley,  "  for  Stelling  is  married  to  as  nice 
a  little  woman  as  any  man  need  wisli  for  a  wife.  There  is  n't 
a  kinder  little  soul  in  the  world ;  I  know  her  family  well. 
She  has  very  much  your  complexion  —  light  curly  hair.  She 
comes  of  a  good  Mudport  family,  and  it 's  not  every  offer  that 
would  have  been  acceptable  in  that  quarter.  But  Stelling 's 
not  an  every -day  man.  Kather  a  particular  fellow  as  to  the 
people  he  chooses  to  be  connected  with.  But  I  think  he 
would  have  no  objection  to  take  your  son  —  I  think  he  would 
not,  on  my  representation." 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  could  have  against  the  lad,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a  slight  touch  of  motherly  indignation ; 
"  a  nice  fresh-skinned  lad  as  anybody  need  wish  to  see." 

"  But  there  's  one  thing  I  'm  thinking  on,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
turning  his  head  on  one  side  and  looking  at  Mr.  Riley,  after 
a  long  perusal  of  the  carpet.     "  Would  n't  a  parson  be  almost 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  21 

too  high-learnt  to  bring  up  a  lad  to  be  a  man  o'  business  ? 
My  notion  o'  the  parsons  ^vas  as  they  'd  got  a  sort  o'  learning 
as  lay  mostly  out  o'  sight.  And  that  is  n't  what  I  want  for 
Tom.  I  want  him  to  know  figures,  and  write  like  print,  and 
see  into  things  quick,  and  know  what  folks  mean,  and  how  to 
wrap  things  up  in  words  as  are  n't  actionable.  It 's  an  un- 
common fine  thing,  that  is,"  concluded  Mr.  Tulliver,  shaking 
his  head,  "  when  you  can  let  a  man  know  what  you  think  of 
him  without  paying  for  it." 

"  Oh  my  dear  Tulliver,"  said  Mr.  Eiley,  "  you  're  quite 
under  a  mistake  about  the  clergy  ;  all  the  best  schoolmasters 
are  of  the  clergy.  The  schoolmasters  who  are  not  clergymen, 
are  a  very  low  set  of  men  generally  —  " 

"Ay,  that  Jacobs  is,  at  the  'cademy,"  interposed  Mr. 
Tulliver. 

"  To  be  sure  —  men  who  have  failed  in  other  trades,  most 
likely.  Now  a  clergyman  is  a  gentlemen  by  profession  and 
education ;  and  besides  that,  he  has  the  knowledge  that  will 
ground  a  boy,  and  prepare  him  for  entering  on  any  career 
with  credit.  There  may  be  some  clergymen  who  are  mere 
book-men ;  but  you  may  depend  upon  it,  Stelling  is  not  one 
of  them  —  a  man  that 's  wide  awake,  let  me  tell  you.  Drop 
him  a  hint,  and  that 's  enough.  You  talk  of  figures,  now ; 
you  have  only  to  say  to  Stelling,  '  I  want  my  son  to  be  a 
thorough  arithmetician,'  and  you  may  leave  the  rest  to  him." 

Mr.  Eiley  paused  a  moment,  while  Mr.  Tulliver,  somewhat 
reassured  as  to  clerical  tutorship,  was  inwardly  rehearsing  to 
an  imaginary  ]Mr.  Stelling  the  statement,  "  I  want  my  son  to 
know  'rethmetic." 

"  You  see,  my  dear  Tulliver,"  Mr.  Riley  continued,  "  when 
you  get  a  thoroughly  educated  man,  like  Stelling,  he 's  at  no 
loss  to  take  up  any  branch  of  instruction.  When  a  workman 
knows  the  use  of  his  tools,  he  can  make  a  door  as  well  as  a 
window." 

"  Ay,  that 's  true,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  almost  convinced  now 
that  the  clergy  must  be  the  best  of  schoolmasters. 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Riley, 
"  and  I  would  n't  do   it   for  everybody.     I  '11  see   Stelliug's 


22  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

father-in-lavv,  or  drop  him  a  line  when  I  get  back  to  Mud- 
port,  to  say  that  you  wish  to  place  your  boy  with  his  son-in-law, 
and  I  dare  say  Stelling  will  write  to  you,  and  send  you  his 
terms." 

"  But  there 's  no  hurry,  is  there  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver ; 
"  for  I  hope,  Mr.  Tulliver,  you  won't  let  Tom  begin  at  his 
new  school  before  Midsummer.  He  began  at  the  'cademy 
at  the  Lady  Day  quarter,  and  you  see  what  good  's  come 
of  it." 

"Ay,  ay,  Bessy,  never  brew  wi'  bad  malt  upo'  Michaelmas- 
day,  else  you  '11  have  a  poor  tap,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  wink- 
ing and  smiling  at  Mr.  Eiley  with  the  natural  pride  of  a  man 
who  has  a  buxom  wife  conspicuously  his  inferior  in  intel- 
lect. "  But  it 's  true  there  's  no  hurry  —  you  've  hit  it  there, 
Bessy." 

"It  might  be  as  well  not  to  defer  the  arrangement  too 
long,"  said  Mr.  Riley,  quietly,  "  for  Stelling  may  have  propo- 
sitions from  other  parties,  and  I  know  he  would  not  take  more 
than  two  or  three  boarders,  if  so  many.  If  I  were  you,  I 
think  I  would  enter  on  the  subject  with  Stelling  at  once  : 
there  's  no  necessity  for  sending  the  boy  before  Midsummer, 
but  I  would  be  on  the  safe  side,  and  make  sure  that  nobody 
forestalls  you." 

"  Ay,  there  's  summat  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 

"  Father,"  broke  in  Maggie,  who  had  stolen  unperceived  to 
her  father's  elbow  again,  listening  with  parted  lips,  while  she 
held  her  doll  topsy-turvy,  and  crushed  its  nose  against  the 
wood  of  the  chair  —  "  Father,  is  it  a  long  way  off  where  Tom 
is  to  go  ?  shan't  we  ever  go  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  wench,"  said  the  father,  tenderly.  "Ask 
Mr.  Riley ;  he  knows." 

Maggie  came  round  promptly  in  front  of  Mr.  Riley,  and 
said,  "  How  far  is  it,  please,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  long  long  way  oif,"  that  gentleman  answered,  being 
of  opinion  that  children,  when  they  are  not  naughty,  should 
always  be  spoken  to  jocosely.  "  You  must  borrow  the  seven- 
leagued  boots  to  get  to  him." 

"That 's  nonsense !"  said  Maggie,  tossing  her  head  haught 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  23 

and  turning  away,  with  the  tears  springing  in  her  eyes.  She 
began  to  dislike  Mr.  Riley  :  it  was  evident  he  thought  her  silly 
and  of  no  consequence. 

"  Hush,  Maggie  !  for  shame  of  you,  asking  questions  and 
chattering,"  said  her  mother.  "  Come  and  sit  down  on  your 
little  stool  and  hold  your  tongue,  do.  But,"  added  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver,  who  had  her  own  alarm  awakened,  "  is  it  so  far  off  as  I 
could  n't  wash  him  and  mend  him  ?  " 

"  About  fifteen  miles,  that 's  all,"  said  Mr.  Eiley.  "  You 
can  drive  there  and  back  in  a  day  quite  comfortably.  Or  — 
Stelling  is  a  hospitable,  pleasant  man  —  he  'd  be  glad  to  have 
you  stay." 

"  But  it 's  too  far  off  for  the  linen,  I  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  TuUi- 
ver,  sadly. 

The  entrance  of  supper  opportunely  adjourned  this  difficulty, 
and  relieved  Mr.  Riley  from  the  labor  of  suggesting  some  solu- 
tion or  compromise  —  a  labor  which  he  would  otherwise  doubt- 
less have  undertaken ;  for,  as  you  perceive,  he  was  a  man  of 
very  obliging  manners.  And  he  had  really  given  himself  the 
trouble  of  recommending  Mr.  Stelling  to  his  friend  Tulliver 
without  any  positive  expectation  of  a  solid,  definite  advantage 
resulting  to  himself,  notwithstanding  the  subtle  indications  to 
the  contrary  which  might  have  misled  a  too  sagacious  observer. 
For  there  is  nothing  more  widely  misleading  than  sagacity  if 
it  happens  to  get  on  a  wrong  scent ;  and  sagacity,  persuaded 
that  men  usually  act  and  speak  from  distinct  motives,  with  a 
consciously  proposed  end  in  view,  is  certain  to  waste  its  ener- 
gies on  imagiuary  game.  Plotting  covetousness,  and  deliber- 
ate contrivance,  in  order  to  compass  a  selfish  end,  are  nowhere 
abundant  but  in  the  world  of  the  dramatist :  they  demand  too 
intense  a  mental  action  for  many  of  our  fellow-parishioners  to 
be  guilty  of  them.  It  is  easy  enough  to  spoil  the  lives  of  our 
neighbors  without  taking  so  much  trouble  :  we  can  do  it  by 
lazy  acquiescence  and  lazy  omission,  by  trivial  falsities  for 
which  we  hardly  know  a  reason,  by  small  frauds  neutralized 
by  small  extravagancies,  by  maladroit  flatteries,  and  clumsily 
improrised  insinuations.  We  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  most 
of  us,  with  a  small  family  of  immediate  desires  —  we  do  little 


24  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

else  than  snatch  a  morsel  to  satisfy  the  hungry  brood,  rarely 
thinking  of  seed-corn  or  the  next  year's  crop. 

Mr.  Eiley  was  a  man  of  business,  and  not  cold  towards  his 
own  interest,  yet  even  he  was  more  under  the  influence  of 
small  promptings  than  of  far-sighted  designs.  He  had  no 
private  understanding  with  the  Rev.  Walter  Stelling  ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  knew  very  little  of  that  M.  A.  and  his  acquire- 
ments—  not  quite  enough  perhaps  to  warrant  so  strong  a 
recommendation  of  him  as  he  had  given  to  his  friend  Tulliver. 
But  he  believed  Mr.  Stelling  to  be  an  excellent  classic,  for 
Gadsby  had  said  so,  and  Gadsby's  first  cousin  was  an  Oxford 
tutor ;  which  was  better  ground  for  the  belief  even  than  his 
own  immediate  observation  would  have  been,  for  though  Mr. 
Riley  had  received  a  tincture  of  the  classics  at  the  great  Mud- 
port  Free  School,  and  had  a  sense  of  understanding  Latin  gen- 
erally, his  comprehension  of  any  particular  Latin  was  not 
ready.  Doubtless  there  remained  a  subtle  aroma  from  his 
juvenile  contact  with  the  "  De  Senectute,"  and  the  Fourth  Book 
of  the  "  ^neid,"  but  it  had  ceased  to  be  distinctly  recognizable 
as  classical,  and  was  only  perceived  in  the  higher  finish  and 
force  of  his  auctioneering  style.  Then,  Stelling  was  an  Oxford 
man,  and  the  Oxford  men  were  always  —  no,  no,  it  was  the 
Cambridge  men  who  were  always  good  mathematicians.  But 
a  man  who  had  had  a  university  education  could  teach  any- 
thing he  liked  ;  especially  a  man  like  Stelling  who  had  made 
a  speech  at  a  Mudport  dinner  on  a  political  occasion,  and  had 
acquitted  himself  so  well  that  it  was  generally  remarked,  this 
son-in-law  of  Timpson's  was  a  sharp  fellow.  It  was  to  be  ex- 
pected of  a  Mudport  man,  from  the  parish  of  St.  Ursula,  that 
he  would  not  omit  to  do  a  good  turn  to  a  son-in-law  of  Timp- 
son's, for  Timpson  was  one  of  the  most  useful  and  influential 
men  in  the  parish,  and  had  a  good  deal  of  business,  which  he 
knew  how  to  put  into  the  right  hands.  Mr.  Riley  liked  such 
men,  quite  apart  from  any  money  which  might  be  diverted, 
through  their  good  judgment,  from  less  worthy  pockets  into 
his  own  ;  and  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  him  to  say  to  Timp- 
son on  his  return  home,  "  I  've  secured  a  good  pupil  for  your 
son-in-law."     Timpson  had  a  large  family  of  daugliters ;  Mr. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  25 

Riley  felt  for  him  ;  besides,  Louisa  Timpson's  face,  with  its 
light  curls,  had  been  a  familiar  object  to  him  over  the  pew 
wainscot  on  a  Sunday  for  nearly  fifteen  years  :  it  was  natural 
her  husband  should  be  a  commendable  tutor.  Moreover,  Mr. 
Riley  knew  of  no  other  schoolmaster  whom  he  had  any  ground 
for  recommending  in  preference  :  why  then  should  he  not  rec- 
ommend Stelling  ?  His  friend  Tulliver  had  asked  him  for  an 
opinion ;  it  is  always  chilling,  in  friendly  intercourse,  to  say 
you  have  no  opinion  to  give.  And  if  you  deliver  an  opinion 
at  all,  it  is  mere  stupidity  not  to  do  it  with  an  air  of  convic- 
tion and  well-founded  knowledge.  You  make  it  your  own  in 
uttering  it,  and  naturally  get  fond  of  it.  Thus  Mr.  Riley, 
knowing  no  harm  of  Stelling  to  begin  with,  and  wishing  him 
well,  so  far  as  he  had  any  wishes  at  all  concerning  him,  had 
no  sooner  recommended  him  than  he  began  to  think  with  ad- 
miration of  a  man  recommended  on  such  high  authority,  and 
would  soon  have  gathered  so  warm  an  interest  on  the  subject, 
that  if  Mr.  Tulliver  had  in  the  end  declined  to  send  Tom  to 
Stelling,  Mr.  Riley  would  have  thought  his  "  friend  of  the  old 
school "  a  thoroughly  pig-headed  fellow. 

If  you  blame  Mr.  Riley  very  severely  for  giving  a  recom- 
mendation on  such  slight  grounds,  I  must  say  you  are  rather 
hard  upon  him.  Why  should  an  auctioneer  and  appraiser 
thirty  years  ago,  who  had  as  good  as  forgotten  his  free-school 
Latin,  be  expected  to  manifest  a  delicate  scrupulosity  which 
is  not  always  exhibited  by  gentlemen  of  the  learned  profes- 
sions, even  in  our  present  advanced  stage  of  morality  ? 

Besides,  a  man  with  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  him  can 
scarcely  abstain  from  doing  a  good-natured  action,  and  one 
cannot  be  good-natured  all  round.  Nature  herself  occasion- 
ally quarters  an  inconvenient  parasite  on  an  animal  towards 
whom  she  has  otherwise  no  ill-will.  What  then?  We  admire 
her  care  for  the  parasite.  If  Mr.  Riley  had  shrunk  from  giv- 
ing a  recommendation  that  was  not  based  on  valid  evidence, 
he  would  not  have  helped  Mr.  Stelling  to  a  paying  pupil,  and 
that  would  not  have  been  so  well  for  the  reverend  gentleman. 
Consider,  too,  that  all  the  pleasant  little  dim  ideas  and  com- 
placencies —  of  standing  well  with  Timpson,   of  dispensing 


26  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

advice  when  he  was  asked  for  it,  of  impressing  his  friend 
Tiilliver  with  additional  respect,  of  saying  something,  and 
saying  it  emphatically,  with  other  inappreciably  minute  in- 
gredients that  went  along  with  the  warm  hearth  and  the 
brandy-and- water  to  make  up  Mr.  Kiley's  consciousness  on 
this  occasion  —  would  have  been  a  mere  blank. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TOM   IS    EXPECTED. 

It  was  a  heavy  disappointment  to  Maggie  that  she  was  not 
allowed  to  go  with  her  father  in  the  gig  when  he  went  to  fetch 
Tom  home  from  the  academy ;  but  the  morning  was  too  wet, 
Mrs.  Tulliver  said,  for  a  little  girl  to  go  out  in  her  best  bonnet. 
Maggie  took  the  opposite  view  very  strongly,  and  it  was  a 
direct  consequence  of  this  difference  of  opinion  that  when  her 
mother  was  in  the  act  of  brushing  out  the  reluctant  black  crop, 
Maggie  suddenly  rushed  from  under  her  hands  and  dipped  her 
head  in  a  basin  of  water  standing  near  —  in  the  vindictive 
determination  that  there  should  be  no  more  chance  of  curls 
that  day. 

"  Maggie,  Maggie  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tulliver,  sitting  stout 
and  helpless  with  the  brushes  on  her  lap,  "  what  is  to  become 
of  you  if  you  're  so  naughty  ?  I  '11  tell  your  aunt  Glegg  and 
your  aunt  Pullet  when  they  come  next  week,  and  they  '11  never 
love  you  any  more.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  look  at  your  clean 
pinafore,  wet  from  top  to  bottom.  Folks  'ull  think  it 's  a 
judgment  on  me  as  I  've  got  such  a  child  —  they  '11  think  I  've 
done  summat  wicked." 

Before  this  remonstrance  was  finished,  Maggie  was  already 
out  of  hearing,  making  her  way  towards  the  great  attic  that 
ran  under  the  old  high-pitched  roof,  shaking  the  water  from  her 
black  locks  as  she  ran,  like  a  Skye  terrier  escaped  from  his 
bath.     This  attic  was  Maggie's  favorite  retreat  on  a  wet  day, 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  27 

when  the  weather  was  not  too  cold ;  here  she  fretted  out  all 
her  ill-humors,  and  talked  aloud  to  the  worm-eaten  floors  and 
the  worm-eaten  shelves,  and  the  dark  rafters  festooned  with 
cobwebs  ;  and  here  she  kept  a  Fetish  which  she  punished  for 
all  her  misfortunes.  This  was  the  trunk  of  a  large  wooden 
doll,  which  once  stared  with  the  roundest  of  eyes  above  the 
reddest  of  cheeks ;  but  was  now  entirely  defaced  by  a  long 
career  of  vicarious  suffering.  Three  nails  driven  into  the 
head  commemorated  as  many  crises  in  Maggie's  nine  years 
of  earthly  struggle;  that  luxury  of  vengeance  having  been 
suggested  to  her  by  the  picture  of  Jael  destroying  Sisera  in 
the  old  Bible.  The  last  nail  had  been  driven  in  with  a  fiercer 
stroke  than  usual,  for  the  Fetish  on  that  occasion  represented 
aunt  Glegg.  But  immediately  afterwards  Maggie  had  reflected 
that  if  she  drove  many  nails  in,  she  would  not  be  so  well  able 
to  fancy  that  the  head  was  hurt  when  she  knocked  it  against 
the  wall,  nor  to  comfort  it,  and  make  believe  to  poultice  it, 
when  her  fury  was  abated ;  for  even  aunt  Glegg  would  be 
pitiable  when  she  had  been  hurt  very  much,  and  thoroughly 
humiliated,  so  as  to  beg  her  niece's  pardon.  Since  then  she 
had  driven  no  more  nails  in,  but  had  soothed  herself  by  alter- 
nately grinding  and  beating  the  wooden  head  against  the  rough 
brick  of  the  great  chimneys  that  made  two  square  pillars  sup- 
porting the  roof.  That  was  what  she  did  this  morning  on 
reaching  the  attic,  sobbing  all  the  while  with  a  passion  that 
expelled  every  other  form  of  consciousness — even  the  memory 
of  the  grievance  that  had  caused  it.  As  at  last  the  sobs  were 
getting  quieter,  and  the  grinding  less  fierce,  a  sudden  beam  of 
simshine,  falling  through  the  wire  lattice  across  the  worm- 
eaten  shelves,  made  her  throw  away  the  Fetish  and  run  to  the 
window.  The  sun  was  really  breaking  out ;  the  sound  of  the 
mill  seemed  cheerful  again ;  the  granary  doors  were  open ; 
and  there  was  Yap,  the  queer  white-and-brown  terrier,  with 
one  ear  turned  back,  trotting  about  and  snifiing  vaguely,  as 
if  he  were  in  search  of  a  companion.  It  was  irresistible. 
Maggie  tossed  her  hair  back  and  ran  down-stairs,  seized  her 
bonnet  without  putting  it  on,  peeped,  and  then  dashed  along 
the  passage  lest  she  should  encounter  her  mother,  and  was 


28  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

quickly  out  in  the  yard,  whirling  round  like  a  Pythoness,  and 
singing  as  she  whirled,  "  Yap,  Yap,  Tom 's  coming  home ! " 
while  Yap  danced  and  barked  round  her,  as  much  as  to  say,  if 
there  was  any  noise  wanted  he  was  the  dog  for  it. 

"  Hegh,  hegh,  Miss  !  you  '11  make  yourself  giddy,  an'  tumble 
down  i'  the  dirt,"  said  Luke,  the  head  miller,  a  tall  broad- 
shouldered  man  of  forty,  black-eyed  and  black-haired,  subdued 
by  a  general  mealiness,  like  an  auricula. 

Maggie  paused  in  her  whirling  and  said,  staggering  a  little, 
"  Oh  no,  it  does  n't  make  me  giddy,  Luke ;  may  I  go  into  the 
mill  with  you  ?  " 

Maggie  loved  to  linger  in  the  great  spaces  of  the  mill,  and 
often  came  out  with  her  black  hair  powdered  to  a  soft  white- 
ness that  made  her  dark  eyes  flash  out  with  new  fire.  The 
resolute  din,  the  unresting  motion  of  the  great  stones,  giving 
her  a  dim  delicious  awe  as  at  the  presence  of  an  uncontrollable 
force  —  the  meal  forever  pouring,  pouring  —  the  fine  white 
powder  softening  all  surfaces,  and  making  the  very  spider-nets 
look  like  a  faery  lace-work  —  the  sweet  pure  scent  of  the  meal 
—  all  helped  to  make  Maggie  feel  that  the  mill  was  a  little 
world  apart  from  her  outside  every-day  life.  The  spiders  were 
especially  a  subject  of  speculation  with  her.  She  wondered  if 
they  had  any  relatives  outside  the  mill,  for  in  that  case  there 
must  be  a  painful  difficulty  in  their  family  intercourse  —  a  fat 
and  floury  spider,  accustomed  to  take  his  fly  well  dusted  with 
meal,  must  suffer  a  little  at  a  cousin's  table  where  the  fly  was 
au  naturel,  and  the  lady-spiders  must  be  mutually  shocked  at 
each  other's  appearance.  But  the  part  of  the  mill  she  liked 
best  was  the  topmost  story  —  the  corn-hutch,  where  there  were 
the  great  heaps  ol  grain,  which  she  could  sit  on  and  slide  down 
continually.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  this  recreation  as 
she  conversed  with  Luke,  to  whom  she  was  very  communiJca- 
tive,  wishing  him  to  think  well  of  her  understanding,  as  her 
father  did. 

Perhaps  she  felt  it  necessary  to  recover  her  position  with 
him  on  the  present  occasion,  for,  as  she  sat  sliding  on  the  heap 
of  grain  near  which  he  was  busying  himself,  she  said,  at  thai 
shrill  pitch  which  was  requisite  in  mill-society  — 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  29 

"  I  think  you  never  read  any  book  but  the  Bible  —  did  you, 
Luke  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Miss  —  an'  not  much  o'  that,"  said  Luke,  with  great 
frankness.     "  I  'm  no  reader,  I  are  n't." 

"  But  if  I  lent  you  one  of  my  books,  Luke  ?  I  've  not  got 
any  very  pretty  books  that  would  be  easy  for  you  to  read ;  but 
there 's  '  Pug's  Tour  of  Europe '  —  that  would  tell  you  all  about 
the  different  sorts  of  people  in  the  world,  and  if  you  did  n't 
understand  the  reading,  the  pictures  would  help  you  —  they 
show  the  looks  and  ways  of  the  people,  and  what  they  do. 
There  are  the  Dutchmen,  very  fat,  and  smoking,  you  know  — 
and  one  sitting  on  a  barrel." 

"Nay,  Miss,  I 'u  no  opinion  o'  Dutchmen.  There  be  n't 
much  good  i'  knowin'  about  themV 

"  But  they  're  our  fellow-creatures,  Luke  —  we  ought  to  know 
about  our  fellow-creatures." 

"  Not  much  o'  fellow-creaturs,  I  think,  Miss ;  all  I  know  — 
my  old  master,  as  war  a  knowin'  man,  u^sed  to  say,  says  he, 
'  If  e'er  I  sow  my  wheat  wi'out  brinin',  I  'm  a  Dutchman/  says 
he  ;  an'  that  war  as  much  as  to  say  as  a  Dutchman  war  a  fool, 
or  next  door.  Nay,  nay,  I  are  n't  goin'  to  bother  mysen  about 
Dutchmen.  There  's  fools  enoo  —  an'  rogues  enoo  —  wi'out 
lookin'  i'  books  for  'em." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Maggie,  rather  foiled  by  Luke's  unexpect- 
edly decided  views  about  Dutchmen,  "  perhaps  you  would  like 
'  Animated  Nature  '  better  —  that 's  not  Dutchmen,  you  know, 
but  elephants  and  kangaroos,  and  the  civet-cat,  and  the  sun- 
fish,  and  a  bird  sitting  on  its  tail  —  I  forget  its  name.  There 
are  countries  full  of  those  creatures,  instead  of  horses  and 
cows,  you  know.  Should  n't  you  like  to  know  about  them, 
Luke  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Miss,  I  'n  got  to  keep  count  o'  the  flour  an'  corn  —  I 
can't  do  wi'  knowin'  so  many  things  besides  my  work.  That 's 
what  brings  folks  to  the  gallows  —  knowin'  everything  but 
what  they  'n  got  to  get  their  bread  by.  An'  they  're  mostly 
lies,  I  think,  what 's  printed  i'  the  books  :  them  printed  sheets 
are,  anyhow,  as  the  men  cry  i'  the  streets." 

"  Why,  you  're  like  my  brother  Tom,  Luke,"  said  Maggie, 


30  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

wishing  to  turn  the  conversation  agreeably  ;  "  Tom  's  not  fond 
of  reading.  I  love  Tom  so  dearly,  Luke  —  better  than  any- 
body else  in  the  world.  When  he  grows  up,  I  shall  keep  his 
house,  and  we  shall  always  live  together.  I  can  tell  him 
everything  he  does  n't  know.  But  I  think  Tom  's  clever,  for 
all  he  does  n't  like  books :  he  makes  beautiful  whipcord  and 
rabbit-pens." 

"  Ah,"  said  Luke,  "  but  he  '11  be  fine  an'  vexed,  as  the  rabbits 
are  all  dead." 

"  Dead ! "  screamed  Maggie,  jumping  up  from  her  sliding 
seat  on  the  corn.  "  Oh  dear,  Luke  !  What !  the  lop-eared 
one,  and  the  spotted  doe  that  Tom  spent  all  his  money  to 
buy  ?  " 

"  As  dead  as  moles,"  said  Luke,  fetching  his  comparison  from 
the  unmistakable  corpses  nailed  to  the  stable-wall. 

"Oh  dear,  Luke,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  piteous  tone,  while  the 
big  tears  rolled  down  her  cheek ;  "  Tom  told  me  to  take  care 
of  'em,  and  I  forgot.     What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see.  Miss,  they  were  in  that  far  tool-house,  an' 
it  was  nobody's  business  to  see  to  'em.  I  reckon  Master  Tom 
told  Harry  to  feed  'em,  but  there  's  no  countin'  on  Harry  — 
Ae's  an  offal  creatur  as  iver  come  about  the  primises,  he  is. 
He  remembers  nothing  but  his  own  inside  — an'  I  wish  it  'ud 
gripe  him." 

"  Oh,  Luke,  Tom  told  me  to  be  sure  and  remember  the  rab- 
bits every  day ;  but  how  could  I,  when  they  did  n't  come  into 
my  head,  you  know  ?  Oh,  he  will  be  so  angr}-  with  me,  I 
know  he  will,  and  so  sorry  about  his  rabbits  —  and  so  am  I 
sorry.     Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"Don't  you  fret,  Miss,"  said  Luke,  soothingly,  "they're 
nash  things,  them  lop-eared  rabbits  —  they  'd  happen  ha'  died, 
if  they  'd  been  fed.  Things  out  o'  natur  niver  thrive :  God 
A'mighty  does  n't  like  'em.  He  made  the  rabbits'  ears  to  lie 
back,  an'  it 's  nothin'  but  contrairiness  to  make  'em  hing  down 
like  a  mastiff  dog's.  Master  Tom  'ull  know  better  nor  buy 
such  things  another  time.  Don't  you  fret,  Miss.  Will  you 
come  along  home  wi'  me,  and  see  my  wife  ?  I  'm  a-goin'  this 
minute." 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  31 

The  invitation  offered  an  agreeable  distraction  to  Maggie's 
grief,  and  her  tears  gradually  subsided  as  she  trotted  along  by- 
Luke's  side  to  his  pleasant  cottage,  which  stood  with  its  apple 
and  pear  trees,  and  with  the  added  dignity  of  a  lean-to  pigsty, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  Mill  fields.  Mrs.  Moggs,  Luke's  wife, 
was  a  decidedly  agreeable  acquaintance.  She  exhibited  her 
hospitality  in  bread  and  treacle,  and  possessed  various  works 
of  art.  Maggie  actually  forgot  that  she  had  any  special  cause 
of  sadness  this  morning,  as  she  stood  on  a  chair  to  look  at  a 
remarkable  series  of  pictures  representing  the  Prodigal  Son  in 
the  costume  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  except  that,  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  his  defective  moral  character,  he  had 
not,  like  that  accomplished  hero,  the  taste  and  strength  of 
mind  to  dispense  with  a  wig.  But  the  indefinable  weight  the 
dead  rabbits  had  left  on  her  mind  caused  her  to  feel  more  than 
usual  pity  for  the  career  of  this  weak  young  man,  particularly 
when  she  looked  at  the  picture  where  he  leaned  against  a  tree 
with  a  flaccid  appearance,  his  knee-breeches  unbuttoned  and 
his  wig  awry,  while  the  swine,  apparently  of  some  foreign 
breed,  seemed  to  insult  him  by  their  good  spirits  over  their 
feast  of  husks. 

"  I  'm  veiy  glad  his  father  took  him  back  again  —  are  n't 
you,  Luke  ?  "  she  said.  ''  For  he  was  very  sorry,  you  know, 
and  would  n't  do  wrong  again." 

"  Eh,  Miss,"  said  Luke,  "  he  'd  be  no  great  shakes,  I  doubt, 
let's  fevther  do  what  lie  would  for  him." 

That  was  a  painful  thought  to  Maggie,  and  she  wished  much 
that  the  subsequent  history  of  the  young  man  had  not  been 
left  a  blank. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TOM   COMES    HOME. 

Tom  was  to  arrive  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  wa* 
another  fluttering  heart  besides  Maggie's  when  it  was  late 
enough  for  the  sound  of  the  gig-wheels  to  be  expected ;  for  if 


82  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  a  strong  feeling,  it  was  fondness  for  lier 
boy.  At  last  the  sound  came  —  that  quick  light  bowling  of 
the  gig-wheels  —  and  in  spite  of  the  wind,  which  was  blowing 
the  clouds  about,  and  was  not  likely  to  respect  Mrs.  TuUiver's 
curls  and  cap-strings,  she  came  outside  the  door,  and  even 
held  her  hand  on  Maggie's  offending  head,  forgetting  all  the 
griefs  of  the  morning. 

"  There  he  is,  my  sweet  lad  !  But,  Lord  ha'  mercy  !  he 's 
got  never  a  collar  on ;  it 's  been  lost  on  the  road,  I  '11  be 
bound,  and  spoilt  the  set." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  with  her  arms  open ;  Maggie  jumped 
first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other  ;  while  Tom  descended 
from  the  gig,  and  said,  with  masculine  reticence  as  to  the 
tender  emotions,  "  Hello  !  Yap  —  what !  are  you  there  ?  " 

Nevertheless  he  submitted  to  be  kissed  willingly  enough, 
though  Maggie  hung  on  his  neck  in  rather  a  strangling  fashion, 
while  his  blue-gray  eyes  wandered  towards  the  croft  and  the 
lambs  and  the  river,  where  he  promised  himself  that  he  would 
begin  to  fish  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  He  was  one 
of  those  lads  that  grow  everywhere  in  England,  and  at  twelve 
or  thirteen  years  of  age,  look  as  much  alike  as  goslings  :  —  a 
lad  with  light-brown  hair,  cheeks  of  cream  and  roses,  full  lips, 
indeterminate  nose  and  eyebrows  —  a  physiognomy  in  which 
it  seems  impossible  to  discern  anything  but  the  generic  char- 
acter of  boyhood ;  as  different  as  possible  from  poor  Maggie's 
phiz,  which  Nature  seemed  to  have  moulded  and  colored  with 
the  most  decided  intention.  But  that  same  Nature  has  the 
deep  cunning  which  hides  itself  under  the  ai^pearance  of 
openness,  so  that  simple  people  think  they  can  see  through 
her  quite  well,  and  all  the  while  she  is  secretly  preparing  a 
refutation  of  their  confident  prophecies.  Under  these  average 
boyish  physiognomies  that  she  seems  to  turn  off  by  the  gross, 
she  conceals  some  of  her  most  rigid,  inflexible  purposes,  some 
of  her  most  un modifiable  characters ;  and  the  dark-eyed,  de- 
monstrative, rebellious  girl  may  after  all  turn  out  to  be  a 
passive  being  compared  with  this  pink-and-white  bit  of  mas- 
culinity with  the  indeterminate  features. 

"  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  confidentially,  taking  her  into  a  corner, 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  33 

as  soon  as  his  mother  was  gone  out  to  examine  his  box,  and 
the  warm  parlor  had  taken  off  the  chill  he  had  felt  from  the 
long  drive,  "  you  don't  know  what  I  've  got  in  imj  pockets," 
nodding  his  head  up  and  down  as  a  means  of  rousing  her  sense 
of  mystery. 

"  Ko,"  said  Maggie.  "  How  stodgy  they  look,  Tom  !  Is  it 
marls  (marbles)  or  cobnuts  ?  "  Maggie's  heart  sank  a  little, 
because  Tom  always  said  it  was  "  no  good  "  playing  with  her 
at  those  games  —  she  played  so  badly. 

"  Marls  !  no ;  I  've  swopped  all  my  marls  with  the  little 
fellows,  and  cobnuts  are  no  fun,  you  silly,  only  when  the  nuts 
are  green.  But  see  here  ! "  He  drew  something  half  out  of 
his  right-hand  pocket. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Maggie,  in  a  whisper.  "I  can  see 
nothing  but  a  bit  of  yellow." 

"  Why,  it 's  .  .  .  a  .  .  .  new  .  .  .  guess,  Maggie  ! " 

"  Oh,  I  canH  guess,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  impatiently. 

"  Don't  be  a  spitfire,  else  I  won't  tell  you,"  said  Tom,  thrust- 
ing his  hand  back  into  his  pocket,  and  looking  determined. 

"No,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  imploringly,  laying  hold  of  the 
arm  that  was  held  stiffly  in  the  pocket.  "  I  'm  not  cross,  Tom  ; 
it  was  only  because  I  can't  bear  guessing.  Please  be  good 
to  me." 

Tom's  arm  slowly  relaxed,  and  he  said,  "  Well,  then,  it 's  a 
new  fish-line  —  two  new  uns  —  one  for  you,  Maggie,  all  to 
yourself.  I  would  n't  go  halves  in  the  toffee  and  gingerbread 
on  purpose  to  save  the  money  ;  and  Gibson  and  Spouncer 
fought  with  me  because  I  would  n't.  And  here  's  hooks  ;  see 
here  !  .  .  .  I  say,  wonH  we  go  and  fish  to-morrow  down  by 
the  Eound  Pool  ?  And  you  shall  catch  your  own  fish,  Maggie, 
and  put  the  worms  on,  and  everything  —  won't  it  be  fun  ?  " 

Maggie's  answer  was  to  tlirow  her  arms  round  Tom's  neck 
and  hug  him,  and  hold  her  cheek  against  his  without  speaking, 
while  he  slowly  unwound  some  of  the  line,  saying  after  a 
pause  — 

"Wasn't  T  a  good  brother,  now,  to  buy  you  a  line  all  to 
yourself  ?  You  know,  I  need  n't  have  bought  it,  if  I  had  n't 
liked." 

VOL.    II. 


34  THE   MILL   ON   THl5   FLOSS. 

"Yes,  very,  very  good.  .  .  .  1  do  love  you,  Tom.'' 

Tom  had  put  the  line  back  in  his  pocket,  and  was  looking  at 
the  hooks  one  by  one,  before  he  spoke  again. 

"And  the  fellows  fought  me,  because  I  would  n't  give  in 
about  the  toffee." 

"  Oh  dear  !  I  wish  they  would  n't  fight  at  your  school,  Tom. 
Did  n't  it  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  Hurt  me  ?  no,"  said  Tom,  putting  up  the  hooks  againj 
taking  out  a  large  pocket-knife,  and  slowly  opening  the  largest 
blade,  which  he  looked  at  meditatively  as  he  rubbed  his  fingei 
along  it.     Then  he  added  — 

"  I  gave  Spouncer  a  black  eye,  I  know  —  that 's  what  he  got 
by  wanting  to  leather  me  ;  I  was  n't  going  to  go  halves  because 
anybody  leathered  me." 

"  Oh  how  brave  you  are,  Tom  !  I  think  you  're  like  Samson. 
If  there  came  a  lion  roaring  at  me,  I  think  you  'd  fight  him  — 
would  n't  you,  Tom  ?  " 

"  How  can  a  lion  come  roaring  at  you,  you  silly  thing  ? 
There  's   no  lions,  only  in  the  shows." 

"No;  but  if  we  were  in  the  lion  countries  —  I  mean  in 
A^frica,  where  it 's  very  hot  —  the  lions  eat  people  there.  I  cau 
show  it  you  in  the  book  where  I  read  it." 

"  Well,  I  should  get  a  gun  and  shoot  him." 

"  But  if  you  had  n't  got  a  gun  —  we  might  have  gone  out. 
you  know,  not  thinking — just  as  we  go  fishing;  and  then  a 
great  lion  might  run  towards  us  roaring,  and  we  could  n't  get 
away  from  him.     What  should  you  do,  Tom  ?  " 

Tom  paused,  and  at  last  turned  away  contemptuously, 
saying,  "  But  the  lion  is  n't  coming.  What 's  the  use  of 
talking  ?  " 

"  But  I  like  to  fancy  how  it  would  be,"  said  Maggie,  follow- 
ing him.     "  Just  think  what  you  would  do,  Tom." 

"  Oh,  don't  bother,  Maggie  !  you  're  such  a  silly  —  I  shall  go 
and  see  my  rabbits." 

Maggie's  heart  began  to  flutter  with  fear.  She  dared  not 
tell  the  sad  truth  at  once,  but  she  walked  after  Tom  in  trem» 
bling  silence  as  he  went  out,  thinking  how  she  could  tell  him 
the  news  so  as  to  soften  at  once  his  sorrow  and  his  anger  j  for 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  85 

Maggie  dreaded  Tom's  anger  of  all  things  —  it  was  quite  a 
different  anger  from  her  own. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  timidly,  when  they  were  out  of  doors, 
"  how  much  money  did  you  give  for  your  rabbits  ?  " 

"  Two  half-crowns  and  a  sixpence/'  said  Tom,  promptly. 

"  I  think  I  've  got  a  great  deal  more  than  that  in  my  steel 
purse  up-stairs.     I  '11  ask  mother  to  give  it  you." 

"What  for?"  said  Tom.  "I  don't  want  your  money,  you 
silly  thing.  I  've  got  a  great  deal  more  money  than  you,  be- 
cause I  'm  a  boy.  I  always  have  half-sovereigns  and  sover- 
eigns for  my  Christmas  boxes,  because  I  shall  be  a  man,  and 
you  only  have  five-shilling  pieces,  because  you  're  only  a 
girl." 

"  Well,  but,  Tom  —  if  mother  would  let  me  give  you  two 
half-crowns  and  a  sixpence  out  of  my  purse  to  put  into  your 
pocket  and  spend,  you  know;  and  buy  some  more  rabbits 
with  it  ?  " 

"  More  rabbits  ?     I  don't  want  any  more." 

"  Oh,  but,  Tom,  they  're  all  dead." 

Tom  stopped  immediately  in  his  walk  and  turned  round  to- 
wards Maggie.  "  You  forgot  to  feed  'em,  then,  and  Harry 
forgot  ? "  he  said,  his  color  heightening  for  a  moment,  but 
soon  subsiding.  "  I  '11  pitch  into  Harry  —  I  '11  have  him  turned 
away.  And  I  don't  love  you,  Maggie.  You  shan't  go  fishing 
with  me  to-morrow.  I  told  you  to  go  and  see  the  rabbits  every 
day."     He  walked  on  again. 

"Yes,  bv;t  I  forgot  —  and  I  couldn't  help  it,  indeed,  Tom. 
I  'm  so  very  sorry,"  said  Maggie,  while  the  tears  rushed  fast. 

"You're  a  naughty  girl,"  said  Tom,  severely,  "and  I'm 
sorry  I  bought  you  the  fish-line.     I  don't  love  you." 

"Oh,  Tom,  it's  very  cruel,"  sobbed  Maggie.  "I'd  forgive 
you,  if  7J0U  forgot  anything  —  I  would  n't  mind  what  you  did 
.  -- 1  'd  forgive  you  and  love  you." 

"Yes,  you're  a  silly  —  but  I  never  do  forget  things  —  1 
don't." 

"Oh,  please  forgive  me,  Tom;  my  heart  will  break,"  said 
Maggie,  shaking  with  sobs,  clinging  to  Tom's  arm,  and  laying 
her  wet  cheek  on  his  shoulder. 


36  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

Tom  shook  her  off,  and  stopped  again,  saying  in  a  peremp- 
tory tone,  "  Now,  Maggie,  you  just  listen.  Are  n't  I  a  good 
brother  to  you  ?  " 

"Ye-ye-es,"  sobbed  Maggie,  her  chin  rising  and  falling 
convulsedly. 

"  Did  n't  I  think  about  your  fish-line  all  this  quarter,  and 
mean  to  buy  it,  and  saved  my  money  o'  purpose,  and  would  n't 
go  halves  in  the  toffee,  and  Spouncer  fought  me  because  I 
would  n't  ?  " 

"  Ye-ye-es  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  .  lo-lo-love  you  so,  Tom." 

"  But  you  're  a  naughty  girl.  Last  holidays  you  licked  the 
paint  off  ray  lozenge-box,  and  the  holidays  before  that  you  let 
the  boat  drag  my  fish-line  down  when  I  'd  set  you  to  watch  it, 
and  you  pushed  your  head  through  my  kite,  all  for  nothmg." 

''  But  I  did  n't  mean,"  said  Maggie ;  "  I  could  n't  help  it." 

"  Yes,  you  could,"  said  Tom,  "  if  you  'd  minded  what  you 
were  doing.  And  you  're  a  naughty  girl,  and  you  shan't  go 
fishing  with  me  to-morrow." 

With  this  terrible  conclusion,  Tom  ran  away  from  Maggie 
towards  the  mill,  meaning  to  greet  Luke  there,  and  complain 
to  him  of  Harry. 

Maggie  stood  motionless,  except  from  her  sobs,  for  a  minute 
or  two ;  then  she  turned  round  and  ran  into  the  house,  and 
up  to  her  attic,  where  she  sat  on  the  floor,  and  laid  her  head 
against  the  worm-eaten  shelf,  with  a  crushing  sense  of  misery. 
Tom  was  come  home,  and  she  had  thought  how  happy  she 
should  be  —  and  now  he  was  cruel  to  her.  What  use  was  any- 
thing, if  Tom  did  n't  love  her  ?  Oh,  he  was  very  cruel ! 
Had  n't  she  wanted  to  give  him  the  money,  and  said  how  very 
sorry  she  was  ?  She  knew  she  was  naughty  to  her  mother,  but 
she  had  never  been  naughty  to  Tom  —  had  never  meant  to  be 
naughty  to  him. 

"  Oh,  he  is  cruel !  "  Maggie  sobbed  aloud,  finding  a  wretched 
pleasure  in  the  hollow  resonance  that  came  through  the  long 
empty  space  of  the  attic.  She  never  thought  of  beating  or 
grinding  her  Fetish ;  she  was  too  miserable  to  be  angry. 

These  bitter  sorrows  of  childhood  I  when  sorrow  is  all  new 
^aid  strange,  when  hope  has  not  yet  got  wings  to  fly  beyond 


BOY  AND  GIKL.  37 

the  days  and  weeks,  and  the  space  from  summer  to  summer 
seems  measureless. 

Maggie  soon  thought  she  had  been  hours  in  the  attic,  and  it 
must  be  tea-time,  and  they  were  all  having  their  tea,  and  not 
thinking  of  her.  Well,  then,  she  would  stay  up  there  and 
starve  herself — hide  herself  behind  the  tub,  and  stay  there  all 
night ;  and  then  they  would  all  be  frightened,  and  Tom  would 
be  sorry.  Thus  Maggie  thought  in  the  pride  of  her  heart,  as 
she  crept  behind  the  tub ;  but  presently  she  began  to  cry  again 
at  the  idea  that  they  didn't  mind  her  being  there.  If  she 
went  down  again  to  Tom  now  —  would  he  forgive  her  ?  —  per- 
haps her  father  would  be  there,  and  he  would  take  her  part. 
But  then  she  wanted  Tom  to  forgive  her  because  he  loved  her, 
not  because  his  father  told  him.  No,  she  would  never  go 
down  if  Tom  did  n't  come  to  fetch  her.  This  resolution  lasted 
in  great  intensity  for  five  dark  minutes  behind  the  tub ;  but 
then  the  need  of  being  loved,  the  strongest  need  in  poor  Mag- 
gie's nature,  began  to  wrestle  with  her  pride,  and  soon  threw 
it.  She  crept  from  behind  her  tub  into  the  twilight  of  the  long 
attic,  but  just  then  she  heard  a  quick  footstep  on  the  stairs. 

Tom  had  been  too  much  interested  in  his  talk  with  Luke,  in 
going  the  round  of  the  premises,  walking  in  and  out  where  he 
pleased,  and  whittling  sticks  without  any  particular  reason, 
except  that  he  didn't  whittle  sticks  at  school,  to  think  of 
Maggie  and  the  effect  his  anger  had  produced  on  her.  He 
meant  to  punish  her,  and  that  business  having  been  performed, 
he  occupied  himself  with  other  matters,  like  a  practical  per- 
son. But  when  he  had  been  called  in  to  tea,  his  father  said, 
"Why,  Where's  the  little  wench?"  and  Mrs.  Tulliver,  almost 
at  the  same  moment,  said,  '^  Where  's  your  little  sister  ?  "  — - 
both  of  them  having  supposed  that  Maggie  and  Tom  had  been 
together  all  the  afternoon. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom.  He  did  n't  want  to  "  tell  "  of 
Maggie,  though  he  was  angry  with  her ;  for  Tom  Tulliver  was 
a  lad  of  honor. 

"  What !  has  n't  she  been  playing  with  you  all  this  while  ?  " 
said  the  father.  "  She  'd  been  thinking  o'  nothing  but  youi 
coming  home." 


38  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  I  have  n't  seen  her  this  two  hours/'  says  Tom,  commencing 
on  the  plumcake. 

"  Goodness  heart !  she 's  got  drownded  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  rising  from  her  seat  and  running  to  the  window. 
"  How  could  you  let  her  do  so  ?  "  she  added,  as  became  a  fear- 
ful woman,  accusing  she  did  n't  know  whom  of  she  did  n'fc 
know  what. 

"  Nay,  nay,  she 's  none  drownded,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 
"  You  've  been  naughty  to  her,  I  doubt,  Tom  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  haven't,  father,"  said  Tom,  indignantly.  "I 
think  she  's  in  the  house." 

"Perhaps  up  in  that  attic,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "a-singing 
and  talking  to  herself,  and  forgetting  all  about  meal-times." 

"You  go  and  fetch  her  down,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
rather  sharply,  his  perspicacity  or  his  fatherly  fondness  for 
Maggie  making  him  suspect  that  the  lad  had  been  hard 
upon  "the  little  un,"  else  she  would  never  have  left  his  side. 
"And  be  good  to  her,  do  you  hear  ?  Else  I'll  let  you  know 
better." 

Tom  never  disobeyed  his  father,  for  Mr.  Tulliver  was  a 
peremptory  man,  and,  as  he  said,  would  never  let  anybody  get 
hold  of  his  whip-hand;  but  he  went  out  rather  sullenly,  carry- 
ing his  piece  of  plumcake,  and  not  intending  to  reprieve  Mag- 
gie's punishment,  which  was  no  more  than  she  deserved.  Tom 
was  only  thirteen,  and  had  no  decided  views  in  grammar  and 
arithmetic,  regarding  them  for  the  most  part  as  open  questions, 
but  he  was  particularly  clear  and  positive  on  one  point  — 
namely,  that  he  would  punish  everybody  who  deserved  it: 
why,  he  would  n't  have  minded  being  punished  himself,  if  he 
deserved  it ;  but,  then,  he  never  did  deserve  it. 

It  was  Tom's  step,  then,  that  Maggie  heard  on  the  stairs, 
when  her  need  of  love  had  triumphed  over  her  pride,  and  she 
was  going  down  with  her  swollen  eyes  and  dishevelled  hair  to 
beg  for  pity.  At  least  her  father  would  stroke  her  head  and 
say,  "Never  mind,  my  wench."  It  is  a  wonderful  subduer, 
this  need  of  love  —  this  hunger  of  the  heart  —  as  peremptory 
as  that  other  hunger  by  which  Nature  forces  us  to  submit  to 
the  yoke,  and  change  the  face  of  the  world. 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  39 

But  she  knew  Tom's  step,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  vio- 
lently with  the  sudden  shock  of  hope.  He  only  stood  still  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs  and  said,  "  Maggie,  you  're  to  come  down." 
But  she  rushed  to  him  and  clung  round  his  neck,  sobbing, 
"  Oh,  Tom,  please  forgive  me  —  I  can't  bear  it  —  I  will  always 
be  good  —  always  remember  things  —  do  love  me  —  please, 
dear  Tom  ! " 

We  learn  to  restrain  ourselves  as  we  get  older.  We  keep 
apart  when  we  have  quarrelled,  express  ourselves  in  well-bred 
phrases,  and  in  this  way  preserve  a  dignified  alienation,  show- 
ing much  firmness  on  one  side,  and  swallowing  much  grief  or 
the  other.  We  no  longer  approximate  in  our  behavior  to  the 
mere  impulsiveness  of  the  lower  animals,  but  conduct  ourselves 
in  every  respect  like  members  of  a  highly  civilized  society. 
Maggie  and  Tom  were  still  very  much  like  young  animals,  and 
so  she  could  rub  her  cheek  against  his,  and  kiss  his  ear  in  a 
random,  sobbing  way  ;  and  there  were  tender  fibres  in  the  lad 
that  had  been  used  to  answer  to  Maggie's  fondling ;  so  that  he 
behaved  with  a  weakness  quite  inconsistent  with  his  resolu- 
tion to  punish  her  as  much  as  she  deserved .  he  actually  began 
to  kiss  her  in  return,  and  say  — 

"Don't  cry,  then,  Magsie  —  here,  eat  a  bit  o'  cake." 

Maggie's  sobs  began  to  subside,  and  she  put  out  her  mouth 
for  the  cake  and  bit  a  piece ;  and  then  Tom  bit  a  piece,  just 
for  company,  and  they  ate  together  and  rubbed  each  other's 
cheeks  and  brows  and  noses  together,  while  they  ate,  with  a 
humiliating  resemblance  to  two  friendly  ponies. 

"  Come  along,  Magsie,  and  have  tea,"  said  Tom  at  last, 
when  there  was  no  more  cake  except  what  was  down-stairs. 

So  ended  the  sorrows  of  this  day,  and  the  next  morning 
Maggie  was  trotting  with  her  own  fishing-rod  in  one  hand  and 
a  handle  of  the  basket  in  the  other,  stepping  always,  by  a 
peculiar  gift,  in  the  muddiest  places,  and  looking  darkly  ra- 
diant from  under  her  beaver-bonnet  because  Tom  was  good  to 
her.  She  had  told  Tom,  however,  that  she  should  like  him 
to  put  the  worms  on  the  hook  for  her,  although  she  accepted 
his  word  when  he  assured  her  that  worms  could  n't  feel  (it  was 
Tom's  private  opinion  that  it  did  n't  much  matter  if  they  did). 


40  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

He  knew  all  about  worms,  and  fish,  and  those  things;  and 
what  birds  were  mischievous,  and  how  padlocks  opened,  and 
which  way  the  handles  of  the  gates  were  to  be  lifted.  Maggie 
thought  this  sort  of  knowledge  was  very  wonderful  —  much 
more  difficult  than  remembering  what  was  in  the  books ;  and 
she  was  rather  in  awe  of  Tom's  superiority,  for  he  was  the 
only  person  who  called  her  knowledge  "  stuff,"  and  did  not 
feel  surprised  at  her  cleverness.  Tom,  indeed,  was  of  opinion 
that  Maggie  was  a  silly  little  thing;  all  girls  were  silly — they 
could  n't  throw  a  stone  so  as  to  hit  anything,  could  n't  do  any- 
thing with  a  pocket-knife,  and  were  frightened  at  frogs.  Still 
he  was  very  fond  of  his  sister,  and  meant  always  to  take  care 
of  her,  make  her  his  housekeeper,  and  punish  her  when  she 
did  wrong. 

They  were  on  their  way  to  the  Bound  Pool  —  that  wonder- 
ful pool,  which  the  floods  had  made  a  long  while  ago :  no  one 
knew  how  deep  it  was ;  and  it  was  mysterious,  too,  that  it 
should  be  almost  a  perfect  round,  framed  in  with  willows  and 
tall  reeds,  so  that  the  water  was  only  to  be  seen  when  you  got 
close  to  the  brink.  The  sight  of  the  old  favorite  spot  always 
heightened  Tom's  good-humor,  and  he  spoke  to  Maggie  in 
the  most  amicable  whispers,  as  he  opened  the  precious  basket, 
and  prepared  their  tackle.  He  threw  her  line  for  her,  and 
put  the  rod  into  her  hand.  Maggie  thought  it  probable  that 
the  small  fish  would  come  to  her  hook,  and  the  large  ones  to 
Tom's.  But  she  had  forgotten  all  about  the  fish,  and  was 
looking  dreamily  at  the  glassy  water,  when  Tom  said,  in  a 
loud  whisper,  ''  Look,  look,  Maggie ! "  and  came  running  to 
prevent  her  from  snatching  her  line  away. 

Maggie  was  frightened  lest  she  had  been  doing  something 
wrong,  as  usual,  but  presently  Tom  drew  out  her  line  and 
brought  a  large  tench  bouncing  on  the  grass. 

Tom  was  excited. 

"  0  Magsie,  you  little  duck !     Empty  the  basket." 

Maggie  was  not  conscious  of  unusual  merit,  but  it  was 
enough  that  Tom  called  her  Magsie,  and  was  pleased  with 
her.  There  was  nothing  to  mar  her  delight  in  the  whispers 
and  the  dreamy  silences,  when  she  listened  to  the  light  dip- 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  41 

ping  sounds  of  the  rising  fish,  and  the  gentle  rustling,  as  if 
the  willows  and  the  reeds  and  the  water  had  their  happy 
whisperings  also.  Maggie  thought  it  would  make  a  very  nice 
heaven  to  sit  by  the  pool  in  that  way,  and  never  be  scolded. 
She  never  knew  she  had  a  bite  till  Tom  told  her;  but  she 
liked  fishing  very  much. 

It  was  one  of  their  happy  mornings.  They  trotted  along 
and  sat  down  together,  with  no  thought  that  life  would  ever 
change  much  for  them :  they  would  only  get  bigger  and  not 
go  to  school,  and  it  would  always  be  like  the  holidays;  they 
would  always  live  together  and  be  fond  of  each  other.  And 
the  mill  with  its  booming  —  the  great  chestnut-tree  under 
which  they  played  at  houses  —  their  own  little  river,  the  Eip- 
ple,  where  the  banks  seemed  like  home,  and  Tom  was  always 
seeing  the  water  rats,  while  Maggie  gathered  the  purple  plumy 
tops  of  the  reeds,  which  she  forgot  and  dropped  afterwards  — 
above  all,  the  great  Floss,  along  which  they  wandered  with  a 
sense  of  travel,  to  see  the  rushing  spring-tide,  the  awful  Eagre, 
come  up  like  a  hungry  monster,  or  to  see  the  Great  Ash  which 
had  once  wailed  and  groaned  like  a  man  —  these  things  would 
always  be  just  the  same  to  them.  Tom  thought  people  were 
at  a  disadvantage  who  lived  on  any  other  spot  of  the  globe ; 
and  Maggie,  when  she  read  about  Christiana  passing  "the  river 
over  which  there  is  no  bridge,"  always  saw  the  Floss  between 
the  green  pastures  by  the  Great  Ash. 

Life  did  change  for  Tom  and  Maggie;  and  yet  they  were 
not  wrong  in  believing  that  the  thoughts  and  loves  of  these 
first  years  would  always  make  part  of  their  lives.  We  could 
never  have  loved  the  earth  so  well  if  we  had  had  no  childhood 
in  it,  —  if  it  were  not  the  earth  where  the  same  flowers  come 
up  again  every  spring  that  we  used  to  gather  with  our  tiny 
fingers  as  we  sat  lisping  to  ourselves  on  the  grass  —  the  same 
hips  and  haws  on  the  autumn  hedgerows — the  same  redbreasts 
that  we  used  to  call  "God's  birds,"  because  they  did  no  harm  to 
the  precious  crops.  What  novelty  is  worth  that  sweet  monotony 
where  everything  is  known,  and  loved  because  it  is  known  ? 

The  wood  I  walk  in  on  this  mild  May  day,  with  the  young 
yellow-brown  foliage  of  the  oaks   between  me  and  the  blue 


42  THE   MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

sky,  the  white  star-flowers  and  the  blue-eyed  speedwell  and 
the  ground  ivy  at  my  feet  —  what  grove  of  tropic  palms,  what 
strange  ferns  or  splendid  broad-petalled  blossoms,  could  ever 
thrill  such  deep  and  delicate  fibres  within  me  as  this  home 
scene  ?  These  familiar  flowers,  these  well-remembered  bird- 
notes,  this  sky,  with  its  fitful  brightness,  these  furrowed  and 
grassy  fields,  each  with  a  sort  of  personality  given  to  it  by  the 
capricious  hedgerows  —  such  things  as  these  are  the  mother 
tongue  of  our  imagination,  the  language  that  is  laden  with  all 
the  subtle  inextricable  associations  the  fleeting  hours  of  our 
childhood  left  behind  them.  Our  delight  in  the  sunshine  on 
the  deep-bladed  grass  to-day,  might  be  no  more  than  the  faint 
perception  of  wearied  souls,  if  it  were  not  for  the  sunshine 
and  the  grass  in  the  far-off  years  which  still  live  in  us,  and 
transform  our  perception  into  love. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   AUNTS    AND    UNCLES    ABE   COMING. 

It  was  Easter  week,  and  Mrs.  Tulliver's  cheesecakes  were 
more  exquisitely  light  than  usual :  "  a  puff  o'  wind  'ud  make 
'em  blow  about  like  feathers,"  Kezia  the  housemaid  said,  — 
feeling  proud  to  live  under  a  mistress  who  could  make  such 
pastry ;  so  that  no  Season  or  circumstances  could  have  been 
more  propitious  for  a  family  party,  even  if  it  had  not  been 
advisable  to  consult  sister  Glegg  and  sister  Pullet  about  Tom's 
going  to  school. 

"  I  'd  as  lief  not  invite  sister  Deane  this  time,"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  "for  she's  as  jealous  and  having  as  can  be,  and  's 
allays  trying  to  make  the  worst  o'  my  poor  children  to  their 
aunts  and  uncles." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  ask  her  to  come.  I  never 
hardly  get  a  bit  o'  talk  with  Deane  now ;  we  have  n't  had  him 
this  six  months.  What's  it  matter  what  she  says?  —  my 
children  n«ed  be  beholding  to  nobody." 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  43 

"That's  what  you  allays  say,  Mr.  Tulliver  ;  hut  I'm  sure 
there's  nobody  o'  your  side,  neither  aunt  nor  uncle,  to  leave 
'em  so  much  as  a  five-pound  note  for  a  leggicy.  And  there  's 
sister  Glegg,  and  sister  Pullet  too,  saving  money  unknown  — 
for  they  put  by  all  their  own  interest  and  butter-money  too ; 
their  husbands  buy  'em  everything."  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  a 
mild  woman,  but  even  a  sheep  will  face  about  a  little  when 
she  has  lambs. 

"  Tchuh  !  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  It  takes  a  big  loaf  when 
there  's  many  to  breakfast.  What  signifies  your  sisters'  bits 
o'  money  when  they  've  got  half-a-dozen  nevvies  and  nieces  to 
divide  it  among?  And  your  sister  Deane  won't  get  'em  to 
leave  all  to  one,  I  reckon,  and  make  the  country  cry  shame  ou 
'em  when  they  are  dead  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  what  she  won't  get  'em  to  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  "  for  my  children  are  so  awk'ard  wi'  their  aunts  and 
uncles.  Maggie 's  ten  times  naughtier  when  they  come  than 
she  is  other  days,  and  Tom  does  n't  like  'em,  bless  him  — 
though  it 's  more  nat'ral  in  a  boy  than  a  gell.  And  there 's 
Lucy  Deane  's  such  a  good  child  —  you  may  set  her  on  a  stool, 
and  there  she  '11  sit  for  an  hour  together,  and  never  offer  to 
get  off.  I  can't  help  loving  the  child  as  if  she  was  my  own ; 
and  I  'm  sure  she 's  more  like  my  child  than  sister  Deane's, 
for  she  'd  allays  a  very  poor  color  for  one  of  our  family,  sister 
Deane  had." 

"  Well,  well,  if  you  're  fond  o'  the  child,  ask  her  father  and 
mother  to  bring  her  with  'em.  And  won't  you  ask  their  aunt 
and  uncle  Moss  too  ?  and  some  o'  their  children  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  Mr.  Tulliver,  why,  there  'd  be  eight  people  be- 
sides the  children,  and  I  must  put  two  more  leaves  i'  the 
table,  besides  reaching  down  more  o'  the  dinner-service ;  and 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  as  my  sisters  and  your  sister  don't 
suit  well  together," 

"  Well,  well,  do  as  you  like,  Bessy,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  tak- 
ing up  his  hat  and  walking  out  to  the  mill.  Few  wives  were 
more  submissive  than  Mrs.  Tulliver  on  all  points  unconnected 
with  her  family  relations  ;  but  she  had  been  a  Miss  Dodson, 
and  the  Dodaons  were  a  very  respectable  family  indeed-^ as 


44  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

fnuch  looked  up  to  as  any  in  their  own  parish,  or  the  next  to 
it.  The  Miss  Dodsons  had  always  been  thought  to  hold  up 
their  heads  very  high,  and  no  one  was  surprised  the  two 
eldest  had  married  so  well  —  not  at  an  early  age,  for  that  was 
not  the  practice  of  the  Dodson  family.  There  were  particular 
ways  of  doing  every  thing  in  that  family  ;  particular  ways  of 
bleaching  the  linen,  of  making  the  cowslip  wine,  curing  the 
hams,  and  keeping  the  bottled  gooseberries  ;  so  that  no  daugh- 
ter of  that  house  could  be  indifferent  to  the  privilege  of  hav- 
ing been  born  a  Dodsou,  rather  than  a  Gibson  or  a  Watson. 
Funerals  were  always  conducted  with  peculiar  propriety  in 
the  Dodson  family :  the  hat-bands  were  never  of  a  blue  shade, 
the  gloves  never  split  at  the  thumb,  everybody  was  a  mourner 
who  ought  to  be,  and  there  were  always  scarfs  for  the  bearers. 
When  one  of  the  family  was  in  trouble  or  sickness,  all  the 
rest  went  to  visit  the  uiafortunate  member,  usually  at  the  same 
time,  and  did  not  shrink  from  uttering  the  most  disagreeable 
truths  that  correct  family  feeling  dictated :  if  the  illness  or 
trouble  was  the  sufferer's  own  fault,  it  was  not  in  the  practice 
of  the  Dodson  family  to  shrink  from  saying  so.  In  short, 
there  was  in  this  family  a  peculiar  tradition  as  to  what  was 
the  right  thing  in  household  management  and  social  de- 
meanor, and  the  only  bitter  circumstance  attending  this  superi- 
ority was  a  painful  inability  to  approve  the  condiments  or  the 
conduct  of  families  ungoverned  by  the  Dodson  tradition.  A 
female  Dodson,  when  in  "strange  houses,"  always  ate  dry 
bread  with  her  tea,  and  declined  any  sort  of  preserves,  having 
no  confidence  in  the  butter,  and  thinking  that  the  preserves 
had  probably  begun  to  ferment  from  want  of  due  sugar  and 
boiling.  There  were  some  Dodsons  less  like  the  family  than 
others  —  that  was  admitted;  but  in  so  far  as  they  were  "kin," 
they  were  of  necessity  better  than  those  who  were  "  no  kin." 
And  it  is  remarkable  that  while  no  individual  Dodson  was 
satisfied  with  any  other  individual  Dodson,  each  was  sat- 
isfied, not  only  with  him  or  her  self,  but  with  the  Dodsons 
collectively.  The  feeblest  member  of  a  family  —  the  one  who 
has  the  least  character  —  is  often  the  merest  epitome  of  the 
family  habits  and  traditions  ;  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  a  thorough 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  45 

Dodson,  though  a  mild  one,  as  small-beer,  so  long  as  it  is  any- 
thing, is  only  describable  as  very  weak  ale :  and  though  she 
had  groaned  a  little  in  her  /outh  under  the  yoke  of  her  elder 
sisters,  and  still  shed  occasional  tears  at  their  sisterly  re- 
proaches, it  was  not  in  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  be  an  innovator  on  the 
family  ideas.  She  was  thankful  to  have  been  a  Dodson,  and 
to  have  one  child  who  took  after  her  own  family,  at  least  in 
his  features  and  complexion,  in  liking  salt  and  in  eating  beans, 
which  a  Tnlliver  never  did. 

In  other  respects  the  true  Dodson  was  partly  latent  in  Tom, 
and  he  was  as  far  from  appreciating  his  "  kin  "  on  the  mother's 
side  as  Maggie  herself ;  generally  absconding  for  the  day  with 
a  large  supply  of  the  most  portable  food,  when  he  received 
timely  warning  that  his  aunts  and  unclesvwere  coming ;  a  moral 
symptom  from  which  his  aunt  Glegg  deduced  the  gloomiest 
views  of  his  future.  It  was  rather  hard  on  Maggie  that  Tom 
always  absconded  without  letting  her  into  the  secret,  but  the 
weaker  sex  are  acknowledged  to  be  serious  impedimenta  in 
cases  of  flight. 

On  Wednesday,  the  day  before  the  aunts  and  uncles  were 
coming,  there  were  such  various  and  suggestive  scents,  as  of 
plumcakes  in  the  oven  and  jellies  in  the  hot  state,  mingled 
with  the  aroma  of  gravy,  that  it  was  impossible  to  feel  altogether 
gloomy  :  there  was  hope  in  the  air.  Tom  and  Maggie  made 
several  inroads  into  the  kitchen,  and,  like  other  marauders, 
were  induced  to  keep  aloof  for  a  time  only  by  being  allowed 
to  carry  away  a  sufficient  load  of  booty. 

"  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  as  they  sat  on  the  boughs  of  the  elder- 
tree,  eating  their  jam-puffs,  "  shall  you  run  away  to-morrow  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Tom,  slowly,  when  he  had  finished  his  puff,  and 
was  eying  the  third,  which  was  to  be  divided  between  them 
—  "no,  I  shan't." 

"  Why,  Tom  ?     Because  Lucy 's  coming  ?  " 

"  E"o,"  said  Tom,  opening  his  pocket-knife  and  holding  it 
over  the  puff,  with  his  head  on  one  side  in  a  dubitative  man- 
ner. (It  was  a  difficult  problem  to  divide  that  very  irregular 
polygon  into  two  equal  parts.)  "What  do  /care about  Lucy? 
She 's  only  a  girl  —  she  can't  play  at  bandy." 


56  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  Is  it  the  tipsy-cake,  then  ? "  said  Maggie,  exerting  her 
hypothetic  powers,  while  she  leaned  forward  towards  Toid 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  hovering  knife. 

"  No,  you  silly,  that  '11  be  good  the  day  after.  It 's  the 
pudden.  I  know  what  the  pudden  's  to  be  — apricot  roll-up  — 
O  my  buttons  !  " 

With  this  interjection,  the  knife  descended  on  the  puff  and 
it  was  in  two,  but  the  result  was  not  satisfactory  to  Tom,  for 
he  still  eyed  the  halves  doubtfully.     At  last  he  said  — 

"  Shut  your  eyes,  Maggie." 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  You  never  mind  what  for.     Shut  'em  when  I  tell  you." 

Maggie  obeyed. 

"  Now,  which  '11  you  have,  Maggie  —  right  hand  or  left  ?  " 

*'  X  '11  have  that  with  the  jam  run  out,"  said  Maggie,  keeping 
her  eyes  shut  to  please  Tom. 

"  Why,  you  don't  like  that,  you  silly.  You  may  have  it  if 
it  comes  to  you  fair,  but  I  shan't  give  it  you  wdthout.  Right 
of  left — you  choose,  now.  Ha-a-a  !  "  said  Tom,  in  a  tone  of 
exasperation,  as  Maggie  peeped.  "  You  keep  your  eyes  shut, 
now,  else  you  shan't  have  any." 

Maggie's  power  of  sacrifice  did  not  extend  so  far ;  indeed,  I 
fear  she  cared  less  that  Tom  should  enjoy  the  utmost  possible 
amount  of  puff,  than  that  he  should  be  pleased  with  her  for 
giving  him  the  best  bit.  So  she  shut  her  eyes  quite  close, 
till  Tom  told  her  to  "  say  which,"  and  then  she  said,  "  Left 
hand." 

"  You  've  got  it,"  said  Tom,  in  rather  a  bitter  tone. 

«  What !  the  bit  with  the  jam  run  out  ?  " 

"No;  here,  take  it,"  said  Tom,  firmly,  handing  decidedly 
the  best  piece  to  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  please,  Tom,  have  it :  I  don't  mind  —  I  like  the  other : 
please  take  this." 

"No,  I  shan't,"  said  Tom,  almost  crossly,  beginning  on  hia 
own  inferior  piece. 

Maggie,  thinking  it  was  no  use  to  contend  further,  began 
too,  and  ate  up  her  half  puff  with  considerable  relish  as  well 
as  rapidity.     But  Tom  had  finished  first,  and  had  to  look  on 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  47 

while  Maggie  ate  her  last  morsel  or  two,  feeling  in  himself  a 
capacity  for  more.  Maggie  did  n't  know  Tom  was  looking 
at  her ;  she  was  seesawing  on  the  elder-bough,  lost  to  almost 
everything  but  a  vague  sense  of  jam  and  idleness. 

"  Oh,  you  greedy  thing  !  "  said  Tom,  when  she  had  swallowed 
the  last  morsel.  He  was  conscious  of  having  acted  very  fairly, 
and  thought  she  ought  to  have  considered  this,  and  made  up 
to  him  for  it.  He  would  have  refused  a  bit  of  hers  beforehand, 
but  one  is  naturally  at  a  different  point  of  view  before  and 
after  one's  own  share  of  puff  is  swallowed. 

Maggie  turned  quite  pale.  "  Oh,  Tom,  why  did  n't  you  ask 
me?" 

"  I  was  n't  going  to  ask  you  for  a  bit,  you  greedy.  You 
might  have  thought  of  it  without,  when  you  knew  I  gave  you 
the  best  bit." 

"  But  I  wanted  you  to  have  it  —  you  know  I  did,"  said 
Maggie,  in  an  injured  tone. 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  n't  going  to  do  what  was  n't  fair,  like 
Spouncer.  He  always  takes  the  best  bit,  if  you  don't  punch 
him  for  it ;  and  if  you  choose  the  best  with  your  eyes  shut,  he 
changes  his  hands.  But  if  I  go  halves,  I  '11  go  'em  fair  —  only 
I  would  n't  be  a  greedy." 

With  this  cutting  innuendo,  Tom  jumped  down  from  his 
bough,  and  threw  a  stone  with  a  "  hoigh ! "  as  a  friendly  atten- 
tion to  Yap,  who  had  also  been  looking  on  while  the  eatables 
vanished,  with  an  agitation  of  his  ears  and  feelings  which 
could  hardly  have  been  without  bitterness.  Yet  the  excellent 
dog  accepted  Tom's  attention  with  as  much  alacrity  as  if  he 
had  been  treated  quite  generously. 

But  Maggie,  gifted  with  that  superior  power  of  misery  which 
distinguishes  the  human  being,  and  places  him  at  a  proud  dis- 
tance from  the  most  melancholy  chimpanzee,  sat  still  on  her 
bough,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  keen  sense  of  unmerited 
reproach.  She  would  have  given  the  world  not  to  have  eatec 
all  her  puff,  and  to  have  saved  some  of  it  for  Tom.  Not  but 
that  the  puff  was  very  nice,  for  Maggie's  palate  was  not  at  all 
obtuse,  but  she  would  have  gone  without  it  many  times  over, 
sooner  than  Tom  should  call  her  greedy  and  be  cross  with  her. 


48  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

And  he  had  said  he  would  n't  have  it  —  and  she  ate  it  without 
thinking  —  how  could  she  help  it  ?  The  tears  flowed  so  plen- 
tifully that  Maggie  saw  nothing  around  her  for  the  next  ten 
minutes ;  but  by  that  time  resentment  began  to  give  way  to 
the  desire  of  reconciliation,  and  she  jumped  from  her  bough  to 
look  for  Tom.  He  was  no  longer  in  the  paddock  behind  the 
rickyard  —  where  was  he  likely  to  be  gone,  and  Yap  with  him  ? 
Maggie  ran  to  the  high  bank  against  the  great  holly-tree,  where 
she  could  see  far  away  towards  the  Floss.  There  was  Tom ; 
but  her  heart  sank  again  as  she  saw  how  far  off  he  was  on  his 
way  to  the  great  river,  and  that  he  had  another  companion 
besides  Yap  —  naughty  Bob  Jakiu,  whose  official,  if  not  natural 
function,  of  frightening  the  birds,  was  just  now  at  a  standstill. 
Maggie  felt  sure  that  Bob  was  wicked,  without  very  distinctly 
knowing  why ;  unless  it  was  because  Bob's  mother  was  a  dread- 
fully large  fat  woman,  who  lived  at  a  queer  round  house  down 
the  river ;  and  once,  when  Maggie  and  Tom  had  wandered 
thither,  there  rushed  out  a  brindled  dog  that  would  n't  stop 
barking ;  and  when  Bob's  mother  came  out  after  it,  and  screamed 
above  the  barking  to  tell  them  not  to  be  frightened,  Maggie 
thought  she  was  scolding  them  fiercely,  and  her  heart  beat 
with  terror.  Maggie  thought  it  very  likely  that  the  round 
house  had  snakes  on  the  floor,  and  bats  in  the  bedroom ;  for 
she  had  seen  Bob  take  off  his  cap  to  show  Tom  a  little  snake 
that  was  inside  it,  and  another  time  he  had  a  handful  of  young 
bats  :  altogether,  he  was  an  irregular  character,  perhaps  even 
slightly  diabolical,  judging  from  his  intimacy  with  snakes  and 
bats ;  and  to  crown  all,  when  Tom  had  Bob  for  a  companion, 
he  did  n't  mind  about  Maggie,  and  would  never  let  her  go  with 
him. 

It  must  be  owned  that  Tom  was  fond  of  Bob's  company. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Bob  knew,  directly  he  saw  a 
bird's  egg,  whether  it  was  a  swallow's,  or  a  tomtit's,  or  a 
yellow-hammer's ;  he  found  out  all  the  wasps'  nests,  and  could 
set  all  sorts  of  traps  ;  he  could  climb  the  trees  like  a  squirrel, 
and  had  quite  a  magical  power  of  detecting  hedgehogs  and 
stoats  ;  and  he  had  courage  to  do  things  that  were  rather 
naught}^,  such  as  making  gaps  in  the   hedgerows,  throwing 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  49 

stones  after  the  sheep,  and  killing  a  cat  that  was  wandering 
incognito.  Such  qualities  in  an  inferior,  who  could  always  be 
treated  with  authority  in  spite  of  his  superior  knowingness, 
had  necessarily  a  fatal  fascination  for  Tom ;  and  every  holiday- 
time  Maggie  was  sure  to  have  days  of  grief  because  he  had 
gone  off  with  Bob. 

Well !  there  was  no  hope  for  it :  he  was  gone  now,  and 
Maggie  could  think  of  no  comfort  but  to  sit  down  by  the 
hollow,  or  wander  by  the  hedgerow,  and  fancy  it  was  all 
different,  refashioning  her  little  world  into  just  what  she 
should  like  it  to  be. 

Maggie's  was  a  troublous  life,  and  this  was  the  form  in 
which  she  took  her  opium. 

Meanwhile  Tom,  forgetting  all  about  Maggie  and  the  sting 
of  reproach  which  he  had  left  in  her  heart,  was  hurrying  along 
with  Bob,  whom  he  had  met  accidentally,  to  the  scene  of  a 
great  rat-catching  in  a  neighboring  barn.  Bob  knew  all  about 
this  particular  affair,  and  spoke  of  the  sport  with  an  enthu- 
siasm which  no  one  who  is  not  either  divested  of  all  manly 
feeling,  or  pitiably  ignorant  of  rat-catching,  can  fail  to  im- 
agine. For  a  person  suspected  of  preternatural  wickedness, 
Bob  was  really  not  so  very  villanous-looking ;  there  was  even 
something  agreeable  in  his  snub-nosed  face,  with  its  close- 
curled  border  of  red  hair.  But  then  his  trousers  were  always 
rolled  up  at  the  knee,  for  the  convenience  of  wading  on  the 
slightest  noticej  and  his  virtue,  supposing  it  to  exist,  was  un- 
deniably "  virtue  in  rags,"  which,  on  the  authority  even  of 
bilious  philosophers,  who  think  all  well-dressed  merit  over- 
paid, is  notoriously  likely  to  remain  unrecognized  (perhaps 
because  it  is  seen  so  seldom). 

"I  know  the  chap  as  owns  the  ferrets,"  said  Bob,  in  a 
hoarse  treble  voice,  as  he  shuffled  along,  keeping  his  blue 
eyes  fixed  on  the  river,  like  an  amphibious  animal  who  fore- 
saw occasion  for  darting  in.  "He  lives  up  the  Kennel  Yard 
at  Sut  Ogg's  —  he  does.  He  's  the  biggest  rot-catcher  any- 
where —  he  is.  I  'd  sooner  be  a  rot-catcher  nor  anything  —  I 
would.  The  moles  is  nothing  to  the  rots.  But  Lors  !  you 
mnn  ha'  ferrets.     Dogs  is  no  good.     Why,  there 's  that  dog, 


50  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

now ! "  Bob  continued,  pointing  with  an  air  of  disgust  towards 
Yap,  "  lie 's  no  more  good  wi'  a  rot  nor  nothin'.  I  see  it  my- 
self —  I  did  —  at  the  rot-catchin'  i'  your  feyther's  barn." 

Yap,  feeling  the  withering  influence  of  this  scorn,  tucked 
his  tail  in  and  shrank  close  to  Tom's  leg,  who  felt  a  little  hurt 
for  him,  but  had  not  the  superhuman  courage  to  seem  behind- 
hand with  Bob  in  contempt  for  a  dog  who  made  so  poor  a 
figure^ 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  Yap  's  no  good  at  sport.  I  '11  have 
regular  good  dogs  for  rats  and  everything,  when  I've  done 
school." 

"  Hev  ferrets,  Measter  Tom,"  said  Bob,  eagerly,  —  "  them 
white  ferrets  wi'  pink  eyes  ;  Lors,  you  might  catch  your  own 
rots,  an'  you  might  put  a  rot  in  a  cage  wi'  a  ferret,  an'  see  'em 
fight  —  you  might.  That 's  what  I  'd  do,  I  know,  an'  it  'ud  be 
better  fun  a'most  nor  seein'  two  chaps  fight  —  if  it  was  n't 
them  chaps  as  sold  cakes  an'  oranges  at  the  Fair,  as  the 
things  flew  out  o'  their  baskets,  an'  some  o'  the  cakes  was 
smashed.  .  .  .  But  they  tasted  just  as  good,"  added  Bob,  by 
way  of  note  or  addendum,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  But,  I  say,  Bob,"  said  Tom,  in  a  tone  of  deliberation, 
"  ferrets  are  nasty  biting  things  —  they  '11  bite  a  fellow  with- 
out being  set  on." 

"  Lors  !  why,  that 's  the  beauty  on  'em.  If  a  chap  lays 
hold  o'  your  ferret,  he  won't  be  long  before  he  hollows  out  a 
good  un  —  he  won't." 

At  this  moment  a  striking  incident  made  the  boys  pause 
suddenly  in  their  walk.  It  was  the  plunging  of  some  small 
body  in  the  water  from  among  the  neighboring  bulrushes  :  if 
it  was  not  a  water-rat,  Bob  intimated  that  he  was  ready  to 
undergo  the  most  unpleasant  consequences. 

"  Hoigh  !  Yap  —  hoigh !  there  he  is,"  said  Tom,  clapping 
his  hands,  as  the  little  black  snout  made  its  arrowy  course  to 
the  opposite  bank.     "  Seize  him,  lad  !  seize  him  ! " 

Yap  agitated  his  ears  and  wrinkled  his  brows,  but  declined 
to  plunge,  trying  whether  barking  would  not  answer  the 
purpose  just  as  well. 

"  Ugh !  you   coward ! "   said   Tom,   and   kicked  him   over. 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  51 

feeling  humiliated  as  a  sportsman  to  possess  so  poor-spirited 
an  animal.  Bob  abstained  from  remark  and  passed  on,  choos- 
ing, however,  to  walk  in  the  shallow  edge  of  the  overflowing 
river  by  way  of  change. 

"  He  's  none  so  full  now,  the  Floss  is  n't,"  said  Bob,  as  he 
kicked  the  water  up  before  him,  with  an  agreeable  sense  of 
being  insolent  to  it.  "  Why,  last  'ear,  the  meadows  was  all 
one  sheet  o'  water,  they  was." 

"Ay,  but,"  said  Tom,  whose  mind  was  prone  to  see  an 
opposition  between  statements  that  were  really  quite  accord- 
ant —  "  but  there  was  a  big  flood  once,  when  the  Bound  Pool 
was  made.  /  know  there  was,  'cause  father  says  so.  And  the 
sheep  and  cows  were  all  drowned,  and  the  boats  went  all  over 
the  fields  ever  such  a  way." 

"  /  don't  care  about  a  flood  comin',"  said  Bob  ;  "■  I  don't  mind 
the  water,  no  more  nor  the  land.     I  'd  swim  —  /  would." 

"Ah,  but  if  you  got  nothing  to  eat  for  ever  so  long  ?  "  said 
Tom,  his  imagination  becoming  quite  active  under  the  stimulus 
of  that  dread.  "  When  I  'm  a  man,  I  shall  make  a  boat  with 
a  wooden  house  on  the  top  of  it,  like  Noah's  ark,  and  keep 
plenty  to  eat  in  it  —  rabbits  and  things  —  all  ready.  And 
then  if  the  flood  came,  you  know,  Bob,  I  should  n't  mind.  .  .  . 
And  I  'd  take  you  in,  if  I  saw  you  swimming,"  he  added,  in 
the  tone  of  a  benevolent  patron. 

"  I  are  n't  frighted,"  said  Bob,  to  whom  hunger  did  not 
appear  so  appalling.  "  But  I  'd  get  in  an'  knock  the  rabbits 
on  th'  head  when  you  wanted  to  eat  'em." 

"  Ah,  and  I  should  have  halfpence,  and  we  'd  play  at  heads- 
and-tails,"  said  Tom,  not  contemplating  the  possibility  that 
this  recreation  might  have  fewer  charms  for  his  mature  age. 
"  I  'd  divide  fair  to  begin  with,  and  then  we  'd  see  who  'd 
win." 

"  I  've  got  a  halfpenny  o'  my  own,"  said  Bob,  proudly,  coming 
out  of  the  water  and  tossing  his  halfpenny  in  the  air.  "  Yeads 
or  tails  ?  " 

"  Tails,"  said  Tom,  instantly  fired  with  the  desire  to  win. 

"It's  yeads,"  said  Bob,  hastily,  snatching  up  the  halfpenny 
as  it  fell. 


52  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

*'  It  was  n't,"  said  Tom,  loudly  and  peremptorily.  "  You 
give  me  the  halfpenny  —  I  've  won  it  fair." 

"  I  shan't,"  said  Bob,  holding  it  tight  in  his  pocket. 

"  Then  I  '11  make  you  —  see  if  I  don't,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  can't  make  me  do  nothing,  you  can't,"  said  Bob. 

«  Yes,  I  can." 

"No,  you  can't." 

"I  'm  master." 

"  I  don't  care  for  you." 

"  But  I  '11  make  you  care,  you  cheat,"  said  Tom,  collaring 
Bob  and  shaking  him. 

"  You  get  out  wi'  you,"  said  Bob,  giving  Tom  a  kick. 

Tom's  blood  was  thoroughly  up :  he  went  at  Bob  with  a 
lunge  and  threw  him  down,  but  Bob  seized  hold  and  kept  it 
like  a  cat,  and  pulled  Tom  down  after  him.  They  struggled 
fiercely  on  the  ground  for  a  moment  or  two,  till  Tom,  pinning 
Bob  down  by  the  shoulders,  thought  he  had  the  mastery. 

"  You  say  you  '11  give  me  the  halfpenny  now,"  he  said,  with 
difficulty,  while  he  exerted  himself  to  keep  the  command  of 
Bob's  arms. 

But  at  this  moment,  Yap,  who  had  been  running  on  before, 
returned  barking  to  the  scene  of  action,  and  saw  a  favorable 
opportunity  for  biting  Bob's  bare  leg  not  only  with  impunity 
but  with  honor.  The  pain  from  Yap's  teeth,  instead  of  sur- 
prising Bob  into  a  relaxation  of  his  hold,  gave  it  a  fiercer 
tenacity,  and  with  a  new  exertion  of  his  force,  he  pushed  Tom 
backward  and  got  uppermost.  But  now  Yap,  who  could  get 
no  sufficient  purchase  before,  set  his  teeth  in  a  new  place,  so 
that  Bob,  harassed  in  this  way,  let  go  his  hold  of  Tom,  and, 
almost  throttling  Yap,  flung  him  into  the  river.  By  this  time 
Tom  was  up  again,  and  before  Bob  had  quite  recovered  his 
balance  after  the  act  of  swinging  Yap,  Tom  fell  upon  him, 
threw  him  down,  and  got  his  knees  firmly  on  Bob's  chest. 

"  You  give  me  the  halfpenny  now,"  said  Tom. 

«  Take  it,"  said  Bob,  sulkily. 

"  No,  I  shan't  take  it ;  you  give  it  me." 

Bob  took  the  halfpenny  out  of  his  pocket,  and  threw  it 
away  from  him  on  the  ground. 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  53 

Tom  loosed  his  hold,  and  left  Bob  to  rise. 

"  There  the  halfpenny  lies,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  want  your 
halfpenny ;  I  would  n't  have  kept  it.  But  you  wanted  to 
cheat :  I  hate  a  cheat.  I  shan't  go  along  with  you  any  more," 
he  added,  turning  round  homeward,  not  without  casting  a 
regret  towards  the  rat-catching  and  other  pleasures  which  he 
must  relinquish  along  with  Bob's  society. 

"You  may  let  it  alone,  then,'-*  Bob  called  out  after  him. 
"  I  shall  cheat  if  I  like ;  there  's  no  fun  i'  playing  else ;  and  I 
know  where  there 's  a  goldfinch's  nest,  but  I  '11  take  care 
you  don't.  .  .  .  An'  you're  a  nasty  fightin'  turkey-cock,  you 
are  —  " 

Tom  walked  on  without  looking  round,  and  Yap  followed  his 
example,  the  cold  bath  having  moderated  his  passions. 

"  Go  along  wi'  you,  then,  wi'  your  drowned  dog ;  I  would  n't 
own  such  a  dog  —  I  would  n't,"  said  Bob,  getting  louder,  in  a 
last  effort  to  sustain  his  defiance.  But  Tom  was  not  to  be 
provoked  into  turning  round,  and  Bob's  voice  began  to  falter  a 
little  as  he  said  — 

"An'  I  'n  gi'en  you  everything,  an'  showed  you  everything, 
an'  niver  wanted  nothin'  from  you.  .  .  .  An'  there 's  your  horn- 
handed  knife,  then,  as  you  gi'en  me  —  "  Here  Bob  flung  the 
knife  as  far  as  he  could  after  Tom's  retreating  footsteps.  But 
it  produced  no  effect,  except  the  sense  in  Bob's  mind  that  thpre 
was  a  terrible  void  in  his  lot,  now  that  knife  was  gone. 

He  stood  still  till  Tom  had  passed  through  the  gate  and  dis- 
appeared behind  the  hedge.  The  knife  would  do  no  good  on 
the  ground  there  —  it  would  n't  vex  Tom,  and  pride  or  resent- 
ment was  a  feeble  passion  in  Bob's  mind  compared  with  the 
love  of  a  pocket-knife.  His  very  fingers  sent  entreating  thrills 
that  he  would  go  and  clutch  that  familiar  rough  buck's-horn 
handle,  which  they  had  so  often  grasped  for  mere  affection,  as 
it  lay  idle  in  his  pocket.  And  there  were  two  blades,  and  they 
had  just  been  sharpened !  What  is  life  without  a  pocket-knife 
to  him  who  has  once  tasted  a  higher  existence  ?  No :  to  throw 
the  handle  after  the  hatchet  is  a  comprehensible  act  of  despera- 
tion, but  to  throw  one's  pocket-knife  after  an  implacable  friend 
is  clearly  in  every  sense  a  hyperbole,  or  throwing  beyond  th« 


54  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

mark.  So  Bob  shuffled  back  to  the  spot  where  the  beloved 
knife  lay  in  the  dirt,  and  felt  quite  a  new  pleasure  in  clutching 
it  again  after  the  temporary  separation,  in  opening  one  blade 
after  the  other,  and  feeling  their  edge  with  his  well-hardened 
thumb.     Poor  Bob  !  he  was  not  sensitive  on  the  point  of  honor 

—  not  a  chivalrous  character.  That  fine  moral  aroma  would 
not  have  been  thought  much  of  by  the  public  opinion  of  Kennel 
Yard,  which  was  the  very  focus  or  heart  of  Bob's  world,  even 
if  it  could  have  made  itself  perceptible  there ;  yet,  for  all  that, 
he  was  not  utterly  a  sneak  and  a  thief  as  our  friend  Tom  had 
hastily  decided. 

But  Tom,  you  perceive,  was  rather  a  Ehadamanthine  person- 
age, having  jnore  than  the  usual  share  of  boy's  justice  in  him 

—  the  justice  that  desires  to  hurt  culprits  as  much  as  they 
deserve  to  be  hurt,  and  is  troubled  with  no  doubts  concerning 
the  exact  amount  of  their  deserts.  Maggie  saw  a  cloud  on  his 
brow  when  he  came  home,  which  checked  her  joy  at  his  coming 
so  much  sooner  than  she  had  expected,  and  she  dated  hardly 
speak  to  him  as  he  stood  silently  throwing  the  small  gravel- 
stones  into  the  mill-dam.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  give  up  a  rat- 
catching  when  you  have  set  your  mind  on  it.  But  if  Tom  had 
told  his  strongest  feeling  at  that  moment,  he  would  have  said, 
"I'd  do  ]ust  the  same  again."  That  was  his  iisual  mode  of 
viewing  his  past  actions ;  whereas  Maggie  was  always  wishing 
she  had  done  something  different. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

ENTER  THE  AUNTS  AND  UNCLES. 

The  Dodsons  were  certainly  a  handsome  family^  and  Mrs. 
Glegg  was  not  the  least  handsome  of  the  sisters.  As  she  sat 
in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  arm-chair,  no  impartial  observer  could  have 
denied  that  for  a  woman  of  fifty  she  had  a  very  comely  face 
and  figure,  though  Tom  and  Maggie  considered  their  aunt 
Glegg  as  the  type  of  ugliness.     It  is  true  she  despised  the 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  55 

advantages  of  costume,  for  though,  as  she  often  observed,  no 
woman  had  better  clothes,  it  was  not  her  way  to  wear  her  new 
things  out  before  her  old  ones.  Other  women,  if  they  liked, 
might  have  their  best  thread-lace  in  every  wash  ;  but  when 
Mrs.  Glegg  died,  it  would  be  found  that  she  had  better  lace 
laid  by  in  the  right-hand  drawer  of  her  wardrobe,  in  the 
Spotted  Chamber,  than  ever  Mrs.  Wooll  of  St.  Ogg's  had 
bought  in  her  life,  although  Mrs.  Wooll  wore  her  lace  before 
it  was  paid  for.  So  of  her  curled  fronts  :  Mrs.  Glegg  had 
doubtless  the  glossiest  and  crispest  brown  curls  in  her  drawers, 
as  well  as  curls  in  various  degrees  of  fuzzy  laxness  ;  but  to  look 
out  on  the  week-day  world  from  under  a  crisp  and  glossy  front, 
would  be  to  introduce  a  most  dreamlike  and  unpleasant  confu- 
sion between  the  sacred  and  the  secular.  Occasionally,  indeed, 
Mrs.  Glegg  wore  one  of  her  third-best  fronts  on  a  week-day 
visit,  but  not  at  a  sister's  house ;  especially  not  at  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver's,  who,  since  her  marriage,  had  hurt  her  sisters'  feelings 
greatly  by  wearing  her  own  hair,  though,  as  Mrs.  Glegg  ob- 
served to  Mrs.  Deane,  a  mother  of  a  family,  like  Bessy,  with 
a  husband  always  going  to  law,  might  have  been  expected  to 
know  better.     But  Bessy  was  always  weak ! 

So  if  Mrs.  Glegg's  front  to-day  was  more  fuzzy  and  lax  than 
usual,  she  had  a  design  under  it:  she  intended  the  most 
poi^ited  and  cutting  allusion  to  Mrs.  Tulliver's  bunches  of 
bio  id  curls,  separated  from  each  other  by  a  due  wave  of 
smoothness  on  each  side  of  the  parting.  Mrs.  Tulliver  had 
shed  tears  several  times  at  sister  Glegg's  unkindness  on  the 
subject  of  these  unmatronly  curls,  but  the  consciousness  of 
looking  the  handsomer  for  them,  naturally  administered  sup- 
port. Mrs.  Glegg  chose  to  wear  her  bonnet  in  the  house  to-day 
—  untied  and  tilted  slightly,  of  course  —  a  frequent  practice 
of  hers  when  she  was  on  a  visit,  and  happened  to  be  in  a 
severe  humor :  she  did  n't  know  what  draughts  there  might 
be  in  strange  houses.  For  the  same  reason  she  wore  a  small 
sable  tippet,  which  reached  just  to  her  shoulders,  and  was  very- 
far  from  meeting  across  her  well-formed  chest,  while  her  long 
neck  was  protected  by  a  chevaux-de-frise  of  miscellaneous 
frilling.     One  would  need  to  be  learned  in  the  fashions  of 


56  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

those  times  to  know  liow  far  in  the  rear  of  them  Mrs.  Glegg's 
slate-colored  silk-gown  must  have  been ;  but  from  certain 
constellations  of  small  yellow  spots  upon  it,  and  a  mouldy 
odor  about  it  suggestive  of  a  damp  clothes-chest,  it  was  prob- 
able that  it  belonged  to  a  stratum  of  garments  just  old  enough 
to  have  come  recently  into  wear. 

Mrs.  Glegg  held  her  large  gold  watch  in  her  hand  with  the 
many-doubled  chain  round  her  fingers,  and  observed  to  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  kitchen, 
that  whatever  it  might  be  by  other  people's  clocks  and  watches, 
it  was  gone  half-past  twelve  by  hers. 

"  I  don't  know  what  ails  sister  Pullet,"  she  continued.  "  It 
used  to  be  the  way  in  our  family  for  one  to  be  as  early  as 
another,  —  I  'm  sure  it  was  so  in  my  poor  father's  time,  —  and 
not  for  one  sister  to  sit  half  an  hour  before  the  others  came. 
But  if  the  ways  o'  the  family  are  altered,  it  shan't  be  viy  iault 
—  IHl  never  be  the  one  to  come  into  a  house  when  all  the  rest 
are  going  away.  I  wonder  at  sister  Deane  —  she  used  to  be 
more  like  me.  But  if  you  '11  take  my  advice,  Bessy,  you  '11  put 
the  dinner  forrard  a  bit,  sooner  than  put  it  back,  because  folks 
are  late  as  ought  to  ha'  known  better." 

"  Oh  dear,  there  's  no  fear  but  what  they  '11  be  all  here  in 
time,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  in  her  mild-peevish  tone. 
"  The  dinner  won't  be  ready  till  half-past  one.  But  if  it 's 
long  for  you  to  wait,  let  me  fetch  you  a  cheesecake  and  a  glass 
o'  wine." 

"  Well,  Bessy ! "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  a  bitter  smile,  and  a 
scarcely  perceptible  toss  of  her  head,  ''  I  should  ha'  thought 
you  'd  known  your  own  sister  better.  I  never  did  eat  between 
meals,  and  I  'm  not  going  to  begin.  Not  but  what  I  hate  that 
nonsense  of  having  your  dinner  at  half-past  one,  when  you 
might  have  it  at  one.  You  was  never  brought  up  in  that 
way,  Bessy." 

"  Why,  Jane,  what  can  I  do  ?  Mr.  Tulliver  does  n't  like 
his  dinner  before  two  o'clock,  but  I  put  it  half  an  hour  earlier 
because  o'  you." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  how  it  is  with  husbands — they're  for 
putting  everything  oft"  —  they  '11  put  the  dinner  off  till  after 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  57 

tea,  if  they  Ve  got  wives  as  are  weak  enough  to  give  in  to 
such  work ;  but  it 's  a  pity  for  you,  Bessy,  as  you  have  n't  got 
more  strength  o'  mind.  It  '11  be  well  if  your  children  don't 
suffer  for  it.  And  I  hope  you  've  not  gone  and  got  a  great 
dinner  for  us  —  going  to  expense  for  your  sisters,  as  'ud  sooner 
eat  a  crust  o'  dry  bread  nor  help  to  ruin  you  with  extrava- 
gance. I  wonder  you  don't  take  pattern  by  your  sister  Deane 
—  she 's  far  more  sensible.  And  here  you  've  got  two  children 
to  provide  for,  and  your  husband  's  spent  your  fortin  i'  going 
to  law,  and  's  likely  to  spend  his  OAvn  too.  A  boiled  joint,  as 
you  could  make  broth  of  for  the  kitchen,"  Mrs.  Glegg  added, 
in  a  tone  of  emphatic  protest,  "and  a  plain  pudding,  with  a 
spoonful  o'  sugar,  and  no  spice,  'ud  be  far  more  becoming." 

With  sister  Glegg  in  this  humor,  there  was  a  cheerful  pros- 
pect for  the  day.  Mrs.  Tulliver  never  went  the  length  of 
quarrelling  with  her,  any  more  than  a  water-fowl  that  puts 
out  its  leg  in  a  deprecating  manner  can  be  said  to  quarrel 
with  a  boy  who  throws  stones.  But  this  point  of  the  dinner 
was  a  tender  one,  and  not  at  all  new,  so  that  Mrs.  Tulliver 
could  make  the  same  answer  she  had  often  made  before. 

"  Mr.  Tulliver  says  he  always  will  have  a  good  dinner  for 
his  friends  while  he  can  pay  for  it,"  she  said ;  "  and  he 's  a 
right  to  do  as  he  likes  in  his  own  house,  sister." 

"  Well,  Bessy,  /  can't  leave  your  children  enough  out  o'  my 
savings,  to  keep  'em  from  ruin.  And  you  must  n't  look  to 
having  any  o'  Mr.  Glegg's  money,  for  it 's  well  if  I  don't  go 
first  —  he  comes  of  a  long-lived  family  ;  and  if  he  was  to  die 
and  leave  me  well  for  my  life,  he  'd  tie  all  the  money  up  to  go 
back  to  his  own  kin." 

The  sound  of  wheels  while  Mrs.  Glegg  was  speaking  was 
an  interruption  highly  welcome  to  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  hast- 
ened out  to  receive  sister  Pullet  —  it  must  be  sister  Pullet, 
because  the  sound  was  that  of  a  four-wheel. 

Mrs.  Glegg  tossed  hex  head  and  looked  rather  sour  about  the 
mouth  at  the  thought  of  the  "  four-wheel."  She  had  a  strong 
opinion  on  that  subject. 

Sister  Pullet  was  in  tears  when  the  one-horse  chaise  stopped 
before  Mrs.  TuUiver's  door,  and  it  was  apparently  requisite 


58  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

that  she  should  shed  a  few  more  before  getting  out,  for  though 
her  husband  and  Mrs.  TuUiver  stood  ready  to  support  her, 
she  sat  still  and  shook  her  head  sadly,  as  she  looked  through 
her  tears  at  the  vague  distance. 

*•  Why,  whativer  is  the  matter,  sister  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 
She  was  not  an  imaginative  woman,  but  it  occurred  to  her 
that  the  large  toilet-glass  in  sister  Pullet's  best  bedroom  was 
possibly  broken  for  the  second  time. 

There  was  no  reply  but  a  further  shake  of  the  head,  as  Mrs. 
Pullet  slowly  rose  and  got  down  from  the  chaise,  not  without 
casting  a  glance  at  Mr.  Pullet  to  see  that  he  was  guarding  her 
handsome  silk  dress  from  injury.  Mr.  Pullet  was  a  small  man 
with  a  high  nose,  small  twinkling  eyes,  and  thin  lips,  in  a 
fresh-looking  suit  of  black  and  a  white  cravat,  that  seemed  to 
have  been  tied  very  tight  on  some  higher  principle  than  that 
of  mere  personal  ease.  He  bore  about  the  same  relation  to 
his  tall,  good-looking  wife,  with  her  balloon  sleeves,  abundant 
mantle,  and  large  be-feathered  and  be-ribboned  bonnet,  as  a 
cimall  fishing-smack  bears  to  a  brig  with  all  its  sails  spread. 

It  is  a  pathetic  sight  and  a  striking  example  of  the  complexity 
introduced  into  the  emotions  by  a  high  state  of  civilization  — 
the  sight  of  a  fashionably  drest  female  in  grief.  From  the 
sorrow  of  a  Hottentot  to  tliat  of  a  woman  in  large  buckram 
sleeves,  with  several  bracelets  on  each  arm,  an  architectural 
bonnet,  and  delicate  ribbon-strings  —  what  a  long  series  of 
gradations  !  In  the  enlightened  child  of  civilization  the  aban- 
donment characteristic  of  grief  is  checked  and  varied  in  the 
subtlest  manner,  so  as  to  present  an  interesting  problem  to  the 
analytic  mind.  If,  with  a  crushed  heart  and  eyes  half  blinded 
by  the  mist  of  tears,  she  were  to  walk  with  a  too  devious  step 
through  a  door-place,  she  might  crush  her  buckram  sleeves  too, 
and  the  deep  consciousness  of  this  possibility  produces  a  com- 
position of  forces  by  which  she  takes  a  line  that  just  clears  the 
doorpost.  Perceiving  that  the  tears  are  hurrying  fast,  she  un- 
pins her  strings  and  throws  them  languidly  backward  —  a 
touching  gesture,  indicative,  even  in  the  deepest  gloom,  of  the 
hope  in  future  dry  moments  when  cap-strings  will  once  more 
have  a  charm.     As  the  tears  subside  a  little,  and  with  her  head 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  .^0 

leaning  backward  at  the  angle  that  will  not  injure  her  bonnet, 
she  endures  that  terrible  moment  when  grief,  which  has  made 
all  things  else  a  weariness,  has  itself  become  weary ;  she  looks 
down  pensively  at  her  bracelets,  and  adjusts  their  clasps  with 
that  pretty  studied  fortuity  which  would  be  gratifying  to  her 
mind  if  it  were  once  more  in  a  calm  and  healthy  state. 

Mrs.  Pullet  brushed  each  doorpost  with  great  nicety,  about 
the  latitude  of  her  shoulders  (at  that  period  a  woman  was 
truly  ridiculous  to  an  instructed  eye  if  she  did  not  measure  a 
yard  and  a  half  across  the  shoulders),  and  having  done  that, 
sent  the  muscles  of  her  face  in  quest  of  fresh  tears  as  she  ad- 
vanced into  the  parlor  where  Mrs.  Glegg  was  seated. 

"  Well,  sister,  you  're  late ;  what 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  rather  sharply,  as  they  shook  hands. 

Mrs.  Pullet  sat  down  —  lifting  up  her  mantle  carefully  be- 
hind, before  she  answered  — 

"  She  's  gone,"  unconsciously  using  an  impressive  figure  of 
rhetoric. 

"  It  is  n't  the  glass  this  time,  then,"  thought  Mrs.  Tulliver. 

"  Died  the  day  before  yesterday,"  continued  Mrs  Pullet ; 
"  an'  her  legs  was  as  thick  as  my  body,"  she  added,  with  deep 
sadness,  after  a  pause.  "  They  'd  tapped  her  no  end  o'  times, 
and  the  water  —  they  say  you  might  ha'  swum  in  it,  if  you  'd 
liked." 

"  Well,  Sophy,  it 's  a  mercy  she  's  gone,  then,  whoever  she 
may  be,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  the  promptitude  and  emphasis 
of  a  mind  naturally  clear  and  decided  ;  "  but  I  can't  think  who 
you  're  talking  of,  for  my  part." 

"  But  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  sighing  and  shaking  her 
head ;  "  and  there  is  n't  another  such  a  dropsy  in  the  parish, 
/know  as  it's  old  Mrs.  Sutton  o'  the  Twentylands." 

"  Well,  she 's  no  kin  o'  yours,  nor  much  acquaintance  as  I  've 
ever  beared  of,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  who  always  cried  just  as 
much  as  was  proper  when  anything  happened  to  her  own 
"*  kin,"  but  not  on  other  occasions. 

-^  She  's  so  much  acquaintance  as  I  've  seen  her  legs  when 
they  was  like  bladders.  .  .  .  And  an  old  lady  as  had  doubled 
her  money  over  and  over  again,  and  kept  it  all  in  her  own 


60  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

management  to  the  last,  and  had  her  pocket  with  her  keys  in 
under  her  pillow  constant.  There  is  n't  many  old  ^ansh'ners 
like  her,  I  doubt." 

"  And  they  say  she  'd  took  as  much  physic  as  'ud  fill  a 
wagon,"  observed  Mr.  Pullet. 

"  Ah !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Pullet,  "  she  'd  another  complaint  ever 
so  many  years  before  she  had  the  dropsy,  and  the  doctors 
could  n't  make  out  what  it  was.  And  she  said  to  me,  when  I 
went  to  see  her  last  Christmas,  she  said,  '  Mrs.  Pullet,  if  ever 
you  have  the  dropsy,  you  '11  think  o'  me.'  She  did  say  so," 
added  Mrs.  Pullet,  beginning  to  cry  bitterly  again ;  "  those 
were  her  very  words.  And  she's  to  be  buried  o'  Saturday, 
and  Pullet 's  bid  to  the  funeral." 

"  Sophy,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  unable  any  longer  to  contain  her 
spirit  of  rational  remonstrance  —  '^  Sophy,  I  wonder  at  you, 
fretting  and  injuring  your  health  about  people  as  don't  belong 
to  you.  Your  poor  father  never  did  so,  nor  your  aunt  Frances 
neither,  nor  any  o'  the  family  as  I  ever  heared  of.  You  could  n't 
fret  no  more  than  this,  if  we  'd  heared  as  our  cousin  Abbott 
had  died  sudden  without  making  his  will," 

Mrs.  Pullet  was  silent,  having  to  finish  her  crying,  and  rather 
flattered  than  indignant  at  being  upbraided  for  crying  too 
much.  It  was  not  everybody  who  could  afford  to  cry  so  much 
about  their  neighbors  who  had  left  them  nothing  ;  but  Mrs.  Pul- 
let had  married  a  gentleman  farmer,  and  had  leisure  and  money 
to  carry  her  crying  and  everything  else  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
respectabilit3\ 

"Mrs.  Sutton  did  n't  die  without  making  her  will,  though," 
said  Mr.  Pullet,  with  a  confused  sense  that  he  was  saying 
something  to  sanction  his  wife's  tears  ;  "  ours  is  a  rich  parish, 
but  they  say  there 's  nobody  else  to  leave  as  many  thousands 
behind  'em  as  Mrs.  Sutton.  And  she  's  left  no  leggicies,  to 
speak  on  —  left  it  all  in  a  lump  to  her  husband's  nevvy." 

"  There  was  n't  much  good  i'  being  so  rich,  then,"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  "  if  she  'd  got  none  but  husband's  kin  to  leave  it  to. 
It 's  poor  work  when  that 's  all  you  've  got  to  pinch  yourself 
for ;  —  not  as  I  'm  one  o'  those  as  'ud  like  to  die  without 
leaving   more   money   out   at   interest   than    other  folks   had 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  61 

reckoned.  But  it 's  a  poor  tale  when  it  must  go  out  o'  your 
own  family." 

'•'  1  'm  sure,  sister/'  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  who  had  recovered  suf- 
ficiently to  take  off  her  veil  and  fold  it  carefully,  <'  it 's  a  nice 
sort  o'  man  as  Mrs.  Sutton  has  left  her  money  to,  for  he 's 
troubled  with  the  asthmy,  and  goes  to  bed  every  night  at  eight 
o'clock.     He  told  me  about  it  himself  —  as  free  as  could  be 

—  one  Sunday  when  he  came  to  our  church.  He  wears  a  hare- 
skin  on  his  chest,  and  has  a  trembling  in  his  talk  —  quite  a 
gentleman  sort  o'  man.  I  told  him  there  was  n't  many  months 
in  the  year  as  I  was  n't  under  the  doctor's  hands.  And  he 
said,  '  Mrs.  Pullet,  I  can  feel  for  you.'     That  was  what  he  said 

—  the  very  words.  Ah  ! "  sighed  Mrs.  Pullet,  shaking  her 
head  at  the  idea  that  there  were  but  few  who  could  enter  fully 
into  her  experiences  in  pink  mixture  and  white  mixture,  strong 
stuff  in  small  bottles,  and  weak  stuff  in  large  bottles,  damp 
boluses  at  a  shilling,  and  draughts  at  eighteenpeuce.  ''  Sister, 
I  may  as  well  go  and  take  my  bonnet  off  now.  Did  you  see  as 
the  cap-box  was  put  out  ?  "  she  added,  turning  to  her  husband. 

,  Mr.  Pullet,  by  an  unaccountable  lapse  of  memory,  had  for- 
gotten it,  and  hastened  out,  with  a  stricken  conscience,  to 
remedy  the  omission. 

"  They  '11  bring  it  up-stairs,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  wish- 
ing to  go  at  once,  lest  Mrs.  Glegg  should  begin  to  explain  her 
feelings  about  Sophy's  being  the  first  Dodson  who  ever  ruined 
her  constitution  with  doctor's  stuff. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  fond  of  going  up-stairs  with  her  sister 
Pullet,  and  looking  thoroughly  at  her  cap  before  she  put  it  on 
her  head,  and  discussing  millinery  in  general.  This  was  part 
of  Bessy's  weakness,  that  stirred  Mrs.  Glegg's  sisterly  com- 
passion :  Bessy  went  far  too  well  drest,  considering ;  and  she 
was  too  proud  to  dress  her  child  in  the  good  clothing  her  sister 
Glegg  gave  her  from  the  primeval  strata  of  her  wardrobe ;  it 
was  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  buy  anything  to  dress  that  child,  if 
it  was  n't  a  pair  of  shoes.  In  this  particular,  however,  Mrs. 
Glegg  did  her  sister  Bessy  some  injustice,  for  Mrs.  Tulliver 
had  really  made  great  efforts  to  induce  Maggie  to  wear  a  leg- 
horn bonnet  and  a  dyed  silk  frock  made  out  of  her  aunt  Glegg's, 


62  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

but  the  results  had  been  such  that  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  obliged 
to  bury  them  in  her  maternal  bosom ;  for  Maggie,  declaring 
that  the  frock  smelt  of  nasty  dye,  had  taken  an  opportunity 
of  basting  it  together  with  the  roast-beef  the  first  Sunday  she 
wore  it,  and,  finding  this  scheme  answer,  she  had  subsequently 
pumped  on  the  bonnet  with  its  green  ribbons,  so  as  to  give  it  a 
general  resemblance  to  a  sage  cheese  garnished  with  withered 
lettuces,  I  must  urge  in  excuse  for  Maggie,  that  Tom  had 
laughed  at  her  in  the  bonnet,  and  said  she  looked  like  an  old 
Judy.  Aunt  Pullet,  too,  made  presents  of  clothes,  but  these 
were  always  pretty  enough  to  please  Maggie  as  well  as  her 
mother.  Of  all  her  sisters,  Mrs.  Tulliver  certainly  preferred 
her  sister  Pullet,  not  without  a  return  of  preference  ;  but  Mrs. 
Pullet  was  sorry  Bessy  had  those  naughty  awkward  children  ; 
she  would  do  the  best  she  could  by  them,  but  it  was  a  pity 
they  weren't  as  good  and  as  pretty  as  sister  Deane's  child. 
Maggie  and  Tom,  on  their  part,  thought  their  aunt  Pullet  tol- 
erable, chiefly  because  she  Avas  not  their  aunt  Glegg.  Tom 
always  declined  to  go  more  than  once,  during  his  holidays,  to 
see  either  of  them :  both  his  uncles  tipped  him  that  once,  of 
course  ;  but  at  his  aunt  Pullet's  there  were  a  great  many  toads 
to  pelt  in  the  cellar-area,  so  that  he  preferred  the  visit  to  her. 
Maggie  shuddered  at  the  toads,  and  dreamed  of  them  horribly, 
but  she  liked  her  uncle  Pullet's  musical  snuff-box.  Still,  it 
was  agreed  by  the  sisters,  in  Mrs-  Tulliver's  absence,  that  the 
Tulliver  blood  did  not  mix  v/ell  with  the  Dodson  blood ;  that, 
in  fact,  poor  Bessy's  children  were  Tullivers,  and  that  Tom, 
notwithstanding  he  had  the  Dodson  complexion,  was  likely  to 
be  as  "  contrairy  "  as  his  father.  As  for  Maggie,  she  was  the 
picture  of  her  aunt  Moss,  Mr,  Tulliver's  sister,  — a  large-boned 
iwomai),  who  had  married  as  poorly  as  could  be ;  had  no 
china,  and  had  a  husband  who  had  much  ado  to  pay  his  rent. 
But  when  Mrs.  Pullet  was  alo:)ie  with  Mrs.  Tulliver  up-stairs, 
the  remarks  were  naturally  to  the  disadvantage  of  Mrs.  Glegg, 
and  they  agreed,  in  confidence,  that  there  was  no  knowing 
what  sort  of  fright  sister  Jane  would  come  out  next.  But 
their  tete-a-tete  was  curtailed  by  the  appearance  of  Mrs,  Deane 
with  little  Lucy ;  and  Mrs.   Tulliver  had  to  look  on  with  a 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  63 

silent  pang  while  Lucy's  blond  curls  were  adjusted.  It  was 
quite  unaccountable  that  Mrs.  Deane,  the  thinnest  and  sallow- 
est  of  all  the  Miss  Dodsons,  should  have  had  this  child,  who 
might  have  been  taken  for  Mrs.  Tulliver's  any  day.  And 
Maggie  always  looked  twice  as  dark  as  usual  when  she  was  by 
the  side  of  Lucy. 

She  did  to-day,  when  she  and  Tom  came  m  from  the  garden 
with  their  father  and  their  uncle  Glegg.  Maggie  had  thrown 
her  bonnet  off  very  carelessly,  and,  coming  in  with  her  hair 
rough  as  well  as  out  of  curl,  rushed  at  once  to  Lucy,  who  was 
standing  by  her  mother's  knee.  Certainly  the  contrast  between 
the  cousins  was  conspicuous,  and,  to  superficial  eyes,  was  very 
much  to  the  disadvantage  of  Maggie,  though  a  connoisseur 
might  have  seen  "  points  "  in  her  which  had  a  higher  promise 
for  maturity  than  Lucy's  natty  completeness.  It  was  like  the 
contrast  between  a  rough,  dark,  overgrown  puppy  and  a  white 
kitten.  Lucy  put  up  the  neatest  little  rosebud  mouth  to  be 
kissed  :  everything  about  her  was  neat  — her  little  round  neck, 
with  the  row  of  coral  beads  ;  her  little  straight  nose,  not  at 
all  snubby ;  her  little  clear  eyebrows,  rather  darker  than  her 
curls,  to  match  her  hazel  eyes,  which  looked  up  with  shy  pleas- 
ure at  Maggie,  taller  by  the  head,  though  scarcely  a  year  older. 
Maggie  always  looked  at  Lucy  with  delight.  She  was  fond  of 
fancying  a  world  where  the  people  never  got  any  larger  than 
children  of  their  own  age,  and  she  made  the  queen  of  it  just 
like  Lucy,  with  a  little  crown  on  her  head,  and  a  little  sceptre 
in  her  hand  .  .  .  only  the  queen  was  Maggie  herself  in  Lucy's 
form. 

"  Oh,  Lucy,"  she  burst  out,  after  kissing  her,  "  you  '11  stay 
with  Tom  and  me,  won't  you  ?     Oh,  kiss  her,  Tom." 

Tom,  too,  had  come  up  to  Lucy,  but  he  was  not  going  to 
kiss  her  —  no;  he  came  up  to  her  with  Maggie,  because  it 
seemed  easier,  on  the  whole,  than  saying,  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 
to  all  those  aunts  and  uncles  :  he  stood  looking  at  nothing  in 
particular,  with  the  blushing,  awkward  air  and  semi-smile 
which  are  common  to  shy  boys  when  in  company  —  very  much 
as  if  they  had  come  into  the  world  by  mistake,  and  found  it  in 
a  degree  of  undress  that  was  quite  embarrassing. 


64  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

"Heyday!"  said  aunt  Glegg,  with  loud  emphasis.  "Do 
little  boys  and  gells  come  into  a  room  without  taking  notice 
o'  their  uncles  and  aunts  ?  That  was  n't  the  way  when  /  was 
a  little  gell." 

"  Go  and  speak  to  your  aunts  and  uncles,  my  dears,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  looking  anxious  and  melancholy.  She  wanted 
to  whisper  to  Maggie  a  command  to  go  and  have  her  hair 
brushed. 

"  Well,  and  how  do  you  do  ?  And  I  hope  you  're  good  chil- 
dren, are  you  ? "  said  aunt  Glegg,  in  the  same  loud  emphatic 
way,  as  she  took  their  hands,  hurting  them  with  her  large 
rings,  and  kissing  their  cheeks  much  against  their  desire. 
"Look  up,  Tom,  look  up.  Boys  as  go  to  boarding-schools 
should  hold  their  heads  up.  Look  at  me  now."  Tom  declined 
that  pleasure  apparently,  for  he  tried  to  draw  his  hand  away. 
"  Put  your  hair  behind  your  ears,  Maggie,  and  keep  your  frock 
on  your  shoulder." 

Aunt  Glegg  always  spoke  to  them  in  this  loud  emphatic  way, 
as  if  she  considered  them  deaf,  or  perhaps  rather  idiotic :  it 
was  a  means,  she  thought,  of  making  them  feel  that  they 
were  accountable  creatures,  and  might  be  a  salutary  check  on 
naughty  tendencies.  Bessy's  children  were  so  spoiled  —  they  'd 
need  have  somebody  to  make  them  feel  their  duty. 

"Well,  my  dears,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  in  a  compassionate 
voice,  "you  grow  wonderful  fast.  I  doubt  they'll  outgrow 
their  strength,"  she  added,  looking  over  their  heads  with  a 
melancholy  expression,  at  their  mother.  "I  think  the  gell 
has  too  much  hair.  I  'd  have  it  thinned  and  cut  shorter, 
sister,  if  I  was  you :  it  is  n't  good  for  her  health.  It 's  that 
as  makes  her  skin  so  brown,  I  should  n't  wonder.  Don't  you 
think  so,  sister  Deane  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,  I  'm  sure,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  shutting  her 
lips  close  again,  and  looking  at  Maggie  with  a  critical  eye. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  the  child 's  healthy  enough  — 
there  's  nothing  ails  her.  There 's  red  wheat  as  well  as  white, 
for  that  matter,  and  some  like  the  dark  grain  best.  But  it 
'ud  be  as  well  if  Bessy  'ud  have  the  child's  hair  cut,  so  as  it 
'ud  lie  smooth." 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  65 

A  dreadful  resolve  was  gathering  in  Maggie's  breast,  but  it 
was  arrested  by  the  desire  to  know  from  lier  aunt  Deane 
whether  she  would  leave  Lucy  behind:  aunt  Deane  would 
hardly  ever  let  Lucy  come  to  see  them.  After  various  reasons 
for  refusal,  Mrs.  Deane  appealed  to  Lucy  herself. 

'*  You  would  n't  like  to  stay  behind  without  mother,  should 
you,  Lucy  ?  " 

"Yes,  please,  mother,"  said  Lucy,  timidly,  blushing  very 
pink  all  over  her  little  neck. 

"  Well  done,  Lucy !  Let  her  stay,  Mrs.  Deane,  let  hei 
stay,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  a  large  but  alert-looking  man,  with  a 
type  of  physique  to  be  seen  in  all  ranks  of  English  society  — 
bald  crown,  red  whiskers,  full  forehead,  and  general  solidity 
without  heaviness.  You  may  see  noblemen  like  Mr.  Deane, 
and  you  may  see  grocers  or  day-laborers  like  'him  ;  but  the 
keenness  of  his  brown  eyes  was  less  common  than  his  contour: 
He  held  a  silver  snuff-box  very  tightly  m  his  hand,  and  now 
and  then  exchanged  a  pinch  with  Mr.  Tulliver,  whose  box  was 
only  silver-mounted,  so  that  it  was  naturally  a  joke  between 
them  that  Mr.  Tulliver  wanted  to  exchange  snuff-boxes  also. 
Mr.  Deane's  box  had  been  given  him  \>y  the  superior  partners 
in  the  firm  to  which  he  belonged,  at  the  same  time  that  they 
gave  him  a  share  in  the  business,  in  acknowledgment  of  his 
valuable  services  as  manager.  No  man  was  thought  more 
highly  of  in  St.  Ogg's  than  Mr.  Deane,  and  some  persons  were 
even  of  opinion  that  Miss  Susan  Dodson,  who  was  once  held 
to  have  made  the  worst  match  of  all  the  Dodson  sisters,  might 
one  day  ride  in  a  better  carriage,  and  live  in  a  better  house, 
even  than  her  sister  Pullet.  There  was  no  knowing  where 
a  man  would  stop,  who  had  got  his  foot  into  a  great  mill- 
owning,  ship-owning  busiitess  like  that  of  Guest  &  Co.,  with  a 
banking  concern  attached.  And  Mrs.  Deane,  as  her  intimate 
female  friends  observed,  was  proud  and  "  having  "  enough  :  she 
would  n't  let  her  husband  stand  still  in  the  world  for  want  of 
spurring. 

"  Maggie,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  Deckoning  Maggie  to  her,  and 
whispering  in  her  ear,  as  soon  as  this  point  of  Lucy's  staying 
was  settled,  "  go  and  get  your  hair  brushed  —  do,  for  ahame. 

TOT..    II.  ^ 


66  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

I  told  you  not  to  come  in  without  going  to  Martha  first;  you 
know  I  did." 

"Tom,  come  out  with  me,"  whispered  Maggie,  pulling  his 
sleeve  as  she  passed  him ;  and  Tom  followed  willingly 
enough. 

"  Come  up-stairs  with  me,  Tom,"  she  whispered,  when  they 
were  outside  the  door.  "  There  's  something  I  want  to  do 
before  dinner." 

"  There 's  no  time  to  play  at  anything  before  dinner,"  said 
Tom,  whose  imagination  was  impatient  of  any  intermediate 
prospect. 

"  Oh  yes,  there  is  time  for  this  —  do  come,  Tom." 

Tom  followed  Maggie  up-stairs  into  her  mother's  room,  and 
saw  her  go  at  once  to  a  drawer,  from  which  she  took  out  a 
large  pair  of  scissors. 

"  What  are  they  for,  Maggie  ?  "  said  Tom,  feeling  his  curi- 
osity awakened. 

Maggie  answered  by  seizing  her  front  locks  and  cutting 
them  straight  across  the  middle  of  her  forehead. 

"  Oh,  my  buttons,  Maggie,  j'ou  '11  catch  it ! "  exclaimed  Tom ; 
"  you  'd  better  not  cut  any  more  off." 

Snip !  went  the  great  scissors  again  while  Tom  was  speak- 
ing ;  and  he  could  n't  help  feeling  it  was  rather  good  fun : 
Maggie  would  look  so  queer. 

"  Here,  Tom,  cut  it  behind  for  me,"  said  Maggie,  excited  by 
her  own  daring,  and  anxious  to  finish  the  deed. 

"  You  '11  catch  it,  you  know,"  said  Tom,  nodding  his  head  in 
an  admonitory  manner,  and  hesitating  a  little  as  he  took  the 
scissors, 

"  Never  mind  —  make  haste !  "  said  Maggie,  giving  a  little 
stamp  with  her  foot.     Her  cheeks  were  quite  flushed. 

The  black  locks  were  so  thick  —  nothing  could  be  more 
tempting  to  a  lad  who  had  already  tasted  the  forbidden  pleas- 
ure of  cutting  the  pony's  mane.  I  speak  to  those  who  know 
the  satisfaction  of  making  a  pair  of  shears  meet  through  a 
duly  resisting  mass  of  hair.  One  delicious  grinding  snip,  and 
then  another  and  another,  and  tlie  hinder-locks  fell  heavily 
on  the  floor,  and  Maggie  stood  cropped  in  a  jagged,  uneven 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  67 

manner,  but  with  a  sense  of  clearness  and  freedom,  as  if  she 
had  emerged  from  a  wood  into  the  open  plain. 

"  Oh,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  jumping  round  her,  and  slapping 
his  knees  as  he  laughed,  "oh,  my  buttons,  what  a  queer  thing 
you  look  !  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  —  you  look  like  the 
idiot  we  throw  out  nutshells  to  at  school." 

Maggie  felt  an  unexpected  pang.  She  had  thought  before- 
hand chiefly  of  her  own  deliverance  from  her  teasing  hair  and 
teasing  remarks  about  it,  and  something  also  of  the  triumph 
she  should  have  over  her  mother  and  her  aunts  b}^  this  very 
decided  course  of  action  :  she  did  n't  want  her  hair  to  look 
pretty  —  that  was  out  of  the  question  —  she  only  wanted  peo- 
ple to  think  her  a  clever  little  girl,  and  not  to  find  fault  with 
her.  But  now,  when  Tom  began  to  laugh  at  her,  and  say  she 
was  like  the  idiot,  the  affair  had  quite  a  new  aspect.  She 
looked  in  the  glass,  and  still  Tom  laughed  and  clapped  his 
hands,  and  Maggie's  flushed  cheeks  began  to  pale,  and  her  lips 
to  tremble  a  little. 

"  Oh,  Maggie,  you  '11  have  to  go  down  to  dinner  directly," 
said  Tom.     "  Oh  my  ! " 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  passionate 
tone,  with  an  outburst  of  angry  tears,  stamping,  and  giving 
him  a  push. 

"  Now,  then,  spitfire  ! "  said  Tom.  "  What  did  you  cut  it  off 
for,  then  ?     I  shall  go  down  :  I  can  smell  the  dinner  going  in." 

He  hurried  down-stairs  and  left  poor  Maggie  to  that  bitter 
sense  of  the  irrevocable  which  was  almost  an  everyday  experi- 
ence of  her  small  soul.  She  could  see  clearly  enough,  now  the 
thing  was  done,  that  it  was  very  foolish,  and  that  she  should 
have  to  hear  and  think  more  about  her  hair  than  ever ;  for 
Maggie  rushed  to  her  deeds  with  passionate  impulse,  and  then 
saw  not  only  their  consequences,  but  what  would  have  hap- 
pened if  they  had  not  been  done,  with  all  the  detail  and  ex- 
aggerated circumstance  of  an  active  imagination.  Tom  never 
did  the  same  sort  of  foolish  things  as  Maggie,  having  a  won- 
derful instinctive  discernment  of  what  would  turn  to  his  ad- 
vantage or  disadvantage ;  and  so  it  happened,  that  though  he 
was  much  more  wilful  and  inflexible  than  Maggie,  his  mother 


68  THE    MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

hardly  ever  called  him  naughty.  But  if  Tom  did  make  a  mis- 
take of  that  sort,  he  espoused  it,  and  stood  by  it :  he  "  did  n't 
mind."  If  he  broke  the  lash  of  his  father's  gig-whip  by  lash- 
ing the  gate,  he  could  n't  help  it  —  the  whip  should  n't  have 
got  caught  in  the  hinge.  If  Tom  TuUiver  whipped  a  gate,  he 
was  convinced,  not  that  the  w^hipping  of  gates  by  all  boys  was 
a  justifiable  act,  but  that  he,  Tom  Tulliver,  was  justifiable  in 
whipping  that  particular  gate,  and  he  was  n't  going  to  be  sorry. 
But  Maggie,  as  she  stood  crying  before  the  glass,  felt  it  impos- 
sible that  she  should  go  down  to  dinner  and  endure  the  severe 
eyes  and  severe  words  of  her  aunts,  while  Tom,  and  Lucy,  and 
Martha,  who  waited  at  table,  and  perhaps  her  father  and  her 
uncles,  would  laugh  at  her,  —  for  if  Tom  had  laughed  at  her, 
of  course  every  one  else  would ;  and  if  she  had  only  let  her 
hair  alone,  she  could  have  sat  with  Tom  and  Lucy,  and  had 
the  apricot-pudding  and  the  custard  !  What  could  she  do  but 
sob  ?  She  sat  as  helpless  and  despairing  among  her  black 
locks  as  Ajax  among  the  slaughtered  sheep.  Very  trivial, 
perhaps,  this  anguish  seems  to  weather-worn  mortals  who  have 
to  think  of  Christmas  bills,  dead  loves,  and  broken  friendships ; 
but  it  was  not  less  bitter  to  Maggie  —  perhaps  it  was  even  more 
bitter  —  than  what  we  are  fond  of  calling  antithetically  the  real 
troubles  of  mature  life.  "Ah,  my  child,  you  will  have  real 
troubles  to  fret  about  by-and-by,"  is  the  consolation  we  have 
almost  all  of  us  had  administered  to  us  in  our  childhood,  and 
have  repeated  to  other  children  since  we  have  been  ijrown  up. 
We  have  all  of  us  sobbed  so  piteously,  standing  with  tiny  bare 
legs  above  our  little  socks,  when  we  lost  sight  of  our  mother 
or  nurse  in  some  strange  place ;  but  we  can  no  longer  recall 
the  poignancy  of  that  moment  and  weep  over  it,  as  we  do  over 
the  remembered  sufferings  of  five  or  ten  years  ago.  Every 
one  of  those  keen  moments  has  left  its  trace,  and  lives  in  us 
still,  but  such  traces  have  blent  themselves  irrecoverably  with 
the  firmer  texture  of  our  youth  and  manhood  ;  and  so  it  comes 
that  we  can  look  on  at  the  troubles  of  our  children  with  a 
smiling  disbelief  in  the  reality  of  their  pain.  Is  there  any 
one  who  can  recover  tlie  experience  of  his  childhood,  not 
merely  with  a  memory  of  what  he  did  and  what  happened  to 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  69 

him,  of  what  he  liked  and  disliked  when  he  was  in  frock  and 
trousers,  but  with  an  intimate  penetration,  a  revived  conscious- 
ness of  what  he  felt  then  —  when  it  was  so  long  from  one 
Midsummer  to  another  ?  what  he  felt  when  his  schoolfellows 
shut  him  out  of  their  game  because  he  would  pitch  the  ball 
wrong  out  of  mere  wilfulness  ;  or  on  a  rainy  day  in  the  holi- 
days, when  he  didn't  know  how  to  amuse  himself,  and  fell 
from  idleness  into  mischief,  from  mischief  into  defiance,  and 
from  defiance  into  sulkiness ;  or  when  his  mother  absolutely 
refused  to  let  him  have  a  tailed  coat  that  "half,"  although 
every  other  boy  of  his  age  had  gone  into  tails  already  ? 
Surely  if  we  could  recall  that  early  bitterness,  and  the  dim 
guesses,  the  strangely  perspectiveless  conception  of  life  that 
gave  the  bitterness  its  intensity,  we  should  not  pooh-pooh  the 
griefs  of  our  children. 

"  Miss  Maggie,  you  're  to  come  down  this  minute,"  said 
Kezia,  entering  the  room  hurriedly.  "  Lawks  !  what  have  j'-ou 
been  a-doing  ?     I  niver  see  such  a  fright !  " 

"  Don't,  Kezia,"  said  Maggie,  angrily.     "  Go  away  ! " 

"  But  I  tell  you,  you  're  to  come  down.  Miss,  this  minute : 
your  mother  says  so,"  said  Kezia,  going  up  to  Maggie  and  tak- 
ing her  by  the  hand  to  raise  her  from  the  floor. 

"  Get  away,  Kezia ;  I  don't  want  any  dinner,"  said  Maggie, 
resisting  Kezia's  arm.     "  I  shan't  come." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can't  stay.  I  've  got  to  wait  at  dinner,"  said 
Kezia,  going  out  again. 

"  Maggie,  you  little  silly,"  said  Tom,  peeping  into  the  room 
ten  minutes  after,  "  why  don't  you  come  and  have  your  dinner  ? 
There's  lots  o'  goodies,  and  mother  says  you're  to  come. 
What  are  you  crying  for,  you  little  spoony  ?  " 

Oh,  it  was  dreadful !  Tom  was  so  hard  and  unconcerned  ;  if 
he  had  been  crying  on  the  floor,  Maggie  would  have  cried  too. 
And  there  was  the  dinner,  so  nice ;  and  she  was  so  hungry. 
It  was  very  bitter. 

But  Tom  was  not  altogether  hard.  He  was  not  inclined  to 
cry,  and  did  not  feel  that  Maggie's  grief  spoiled  his  prospect 
of  the  sweets ;  but  he  went  and  put  his  head  near  her,  and  said 
in  a  lower,  comforting  tone  — 


70  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  Won't  you  come,  then,  Magsie  ?  Shall  I  bring  you  a  bit 
o'  pudding  when  I  've  had  mine  ?  .  .  .  and  a  custard  and 
things  ?  " 

"  Ye-e-es,"  said  Maggie,  beginning  to  feel  life  a  little  more 
tolerable. 

*'  Very  well,"  said  Tom,  going  away.  But  he  turned  agaii^ 
at  the  door  and  said,  "But  you'd  better  come,  you  know. 
There's  the  dessert  —  nuts,  you  know  —  and  cowslip  wine." 

Maggie's  tears  had  ceased,  and  she  looked  reflective  as  Tom 
left  her.  His  good-nature  had  taken  off  the  keenest  edge  of 
her  suffering,  and  nuts  with  cowslip  wine  began  to  assert  their 
legitimate  influence. 

Slowly  she  rose  from  amongst  K^r  scattered  locks,  and  slowly 
she  made  her  way  down-stairs.  Then  she  stood  leaning  with 
one  shoulder  against  the  frame  of  the  dining-parlor  door,  peep- 
ing in  when  it  was  ajar.  She  saw  Tom  and  Lucy  with  an 
empty  chair  between  them,  and  there  were  the  custards  on  a 
side-table  —  it  was  too  much.  She  slipped  in  and  went  to- 
wards the  empty  chair.  But  she  had  no  sooner  sat  down  than 
she  repented,  and  wished  herself  back  again. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  gave  a  little  scream  as  she  saw  her,  and  felt 
such  a  ''  turn  "  that  she  dropt  the  large  gravy-spoon  into  the 
dish  with  the  most  serious  results  to  the  table-cloth.  For 
Kezia  had  not  betrayed  the  reason  of  Maggie's  refusal  to  come 
down,  not  liking  to  give  her  mistress  a  shock  in  the  moment 
of  carving,  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  thought  there  was  nothing  worse 
in  question  than  a  fit  of  perverseness,  which  was  inflicting  its 
own  punishment  by  depriving  Maggie  of  half  her  dinner. 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  scream  made  all  eyes  turn  towards  the  same 
point  as  her  own,  and  Maggie's  cheeks  and  ears  began  to  burn, 
while  uncle  Glegg,  a  kind-looking,  white-haired  old  gentleman, 
said  — 

"  Heyday  !  what  little  gell  's  this  —  why,  I  don't  know  her. 
Is  it  some  little  gell  you  've  picked  up  in  the  road,  Kezia  ?  " 

"  Why,  she  's  gone  and  cut  her  hair  herself,"  said  Mr. 
Tulliver  in  an  undertone  to  Mr.  Deane,  laughing  with  much 
enjoyment.  "Did  you  ever  know  such  a  little  hussy  as 
it  is?" 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  71 

"  Why,  little  miss,  you  've  made  yourself  look  very  funny," 
said  uncle  Pullet,  and  perhaps  he  never  in  his  life  made  an 
observation  which  was  felt  to  be  so  lacerating. 

"  Fie,  for  shame  !  "  said  aunt  Glegg,  in  her  loudest,  severest 
tone  of  reproof.  "  Little  gells  as  cut  their  own  hair  should  be 
whipped  and  fed  on  bread  and  water  —  not  come  and  sit  down 
with  their  aunts  and  uncles." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  meaning  to  give  a  playful  turn 
to  this  denunciation,  "  she  must  be  sent  to  jail,  I  think,  and 
they  '11  cut  the  rest  of  her  hair  off  there,  and  make  it  all 
even." 

"  She 's  more  like  a  gypsy  nor  ever,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  in  a 
pitying  tone ;  ''  it 's  very  bad  luck,  sister,  as  the  gell  should  be 
so  brown  —  the  boy 's  fair  enough.  I  doubt  it  '11  stand  in  her 
way  i'  life  to  be  so  brown." 

"  She  's  a  naughty  child,  as  '11  break  her  mother's  heart," 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Maggie  seemed  to  be  listening  to  a  chorus  of  reproach  and 
derision.  Her  first  flush  came  from  anger,  which  gave  her  a 
transient  power  of  defiance,  and  Tom  thought  she  was  braving 
it  out,  supported  by  the  recent  appearance  of  the  pudding  and 
custard.  Under  this  impression,  he  whispered,  "  Oh  my ! 
Maggie,  I  told  you  you  'd  catch  it."  He  meant  to  be  friendly, 
but  Maggie  felt  convinced  that  Tom  was  rejoicing  in  her 
ignominy.  Her  feeble  power  of  defiance  left  her  in  an  instant, 
her  heart  swelled,  and,  getting  up  from  her  chair,  she  ran  to 
her  father,  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  burst  out  into  loud 
sobbing. 

"Come,  come,  my  wench,"  said  her  father,  soothingly,  put- 
ting his  arm  round  her,  "  never  mind ;  you  was  i'  the  right  to 
cut  it  off  if  it  plagued  you ;  give  over  crying :  father  '11  take 
your  part." 

Delicious  words  of  tenderness  !  Maggie  never  forgot  any  of 
these  moments  when  her  father  "  took  her  part ; "  she  kept  them 
in  her  heart,  and  thought  of  them  long  years  after,  when  every 
one  else  said  that  her  father  had  done  very  ill  by  his  children. 

"  How  your  husband  does  spoil  that  child,  Bessy ! "  said 
Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  loud  "  aside,"  to  Mrs.  Tulliver.     "  It  '11  be  the 


72  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

ruin  of  her,  if  you  don't  take  care.  My  father  never  brought 
his  children  up  so,  else  we  should  ha'  been  a  different  sort  o' 
family  to  what  we  are." 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  domestic  sorrows  seemed  at  this  moment  to 
have  reached  the  point  at  which  insensibility  begins.  She  took 
no  notice  of  her  sister's  remark,  but  threw  back  her  cap- 
strings  and  dispensed  the  pudding,  in  mute  resignation. 

With  the  dessert  there  came  entire  deliverance  for  Maggie, 
for  the  children  were  told  they  might  have  their  nuts  and  wine 
in  thxi  summer-house,  since  the  day  was  so  mild,  and  they 
scampered  out  among  the  budding  bushes  of  the  garden  with 
the  alacrity  of  small  animals  getting  from  under  a  burning- 
glass. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  her  special  reason  for  this  permission: 
now  the  dinner  was  despatched,  and  every  one's  mind  disen- 
gaged, it  was  the  right  moment  to  communicate  Mr.  Tulliver's 
intention  concerning  Tom,  and  it  would  be  as  well  for  Tom 
himself  to  be  absent.  The  children  were  used  to  hear  them- 
selves talked  of  as  freely  as  if  they  were  birds,  and  could  un- 
derstand nothing,  however  they  might  stretch  their  necks  and 
listen ;  but  on  this  occasion  Mrs.  Tulliver  manifested  an  un- 
usual discretion,  because  she  had  recently  had  evidence  that 
the  going  to  school  to  a  clergyman  was  a  sore  point  with  Tom, 
who  looked  at  it  as  very  much  on  a  par  with  going  to  school  to 
a  constable.  Mrs,  Tulliver  had  a  sighing  sense  that  her  hus- 
band would  do  as  he  liked,  whatever  sister  Glegg  said,  or  sister 
Pullet  either,  but  at  least  they  would  not  be  able  to  say,  if  the 
thing  turned  out  ill,  that  Bessy  had  fallen  in  with  her  hus- 
band's folly  without  letting  her  own  friends  know  a  word 
about  it. 

*"'Mr.  Tulliver,"  she  said,  interrupting  her  husband  in  his 
talk  with  Mr.  Deane,  "  it 's  time  now  to  tell  the  children's 
aunts  and  uncles  what  you're  thinking  of  doing  with  Tom, 
isn't  it?" 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  sharply,  "I've  no 
objections  to  tell  anybody  what  I  mean  to  do  with  him.  I  've 
settled,"  he  added,  looking  towards  Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane 
—  "I've  settled  to  send  him  to  a  Mr.  Stelling,  a  oarson,  down 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  73 

at  King's  Lorton,  there  —  an  uncommon  clever  fellow,  I  under- 
stand —  as  '11  put  liini  up  to  most  things." 

There  was  a  rustling  demonstration  of  surprise  in  the  com- 
pany, such  as  you  may  have  observed  in  a  country  congrega- 
tion, when  they  hear  an  allusion  to  their  week-day  affairs  from 
the  pulpit.  It  was  equally  astonishing  to  the  aunts  and  uncles 
to  find  a  parson  introduced  into  Mr.  Tulliver's  family  arrange- 
ments.  As  for  uncle  Pullet,  he  could  hardly  have  been  more 
thoroughly  obfuscated  if  Mr.  Tulliver  had  said  that  he  was 
going  to  send  Tom  to  the  Lord  Chancellor :  for  uncle  Pullet 
belonged  to  that  extinct  class  of  British  yeomen  who,  dressed 
in  good  broadcloth,  paid  high  rates  and  taxes,  went  to  church, 
and  ate  a  particularly  good  dinner  on  Sunday,  without  dream- 
ing  that  the  British  constitution  in  Chitrch  and  State  had  a 
traceable  origin  any  more  than  the  solar  system  and  the  fixed 
stars.  It  is  melancholy,  but  true,  that  Mr.  Pullet  had  the 
most  confused  idea  of  a  bishop  as  a  sort  of  a  baronet,  who 
might  or  might  not  be  a  clergyman  ;  and  as  the  rector  of 
his  own  parish  was  a  man  of  high  family  and  fortune,  the  idea 
that  a  clergyman  could  be  a  schoolmaster  was  too  remote  from 
Mr.  Pullet's  experience  to  be  readily  conceivable.  I  know  it 
is  difficult  for  people  in  these  instructed  times  to  believe  in 
uncle  Pullet's  ignorance ;  but  let  them  reflect  on  the  remark- 
able  results  of  a  great  natural  faculty  under  favoring  cir- 
cumstances. And  uncle  Pullet  had  a  great  natural  faculty 
for  ignorance.  He  was  the  first  to  give  utterance  to  his 
astonishment. 

"  Why,  what  can  you  be  going  to  send  him  to  a  parson  for  ?  " 
he  said,  with  an  amazed  twinkling  in  his  eyes,  looking  at 
Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane,  to  see  if  they  showed  any  signs  of 
comprehension. 

"Wliy,  because  the  parsons  are  the  best  schoolmasters,  bj 
what  I  can  make  out,"  said  poor  Mr.  Tulliver,  who,  in  the 
maze  of  this  puzzling  world,  laid  hold  of  any  clew  with  great 
readiness  and  tenacity.  "  Jacobs  at  th'  academy 's  no  parson^ 
and  he 's  done  very  bad  by  the  boy ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind, 
if  I  sent  him  to  school  again,  it  should  be  to  somebody  differ- 
ent to  Jacobs.     And  this  Mr.  Stelling,  by  what  I  can  make 


74  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

out,  is  the  sort  o'  man  I  want.  And  I  mean  my  boy  to  go  to 
him  at  Midsummer,"  he  concluded,  in  a  tone  of  decision,  tap- 
ping his  snuff-box  and  taking  a  pinch. 

'' You']l  have  to  pay  a  swinging  half-yearly  bill,  then,  eh, 
Tulliver  ?  The  clergymen  have  highish  notions,  in  general," 
said  Mr.  Deane,  taking  snuff  vigorously,  as  he  always  did  when 
wishing  to  maintain  a  neutral  position, 

"  What !  do  you  think  the  parson  '11  teach  him  to  know  a 
good  sample  o'  wheat  when  he  sees  it,  neighbor  Tulliver  ? " 
said  Mr,  Glegg,  who  was  fond  of  his  jest ;  and,  having  retired 
from  business^  felt  that  it  was  not  only  allowable  but  becoming 
in  him  to  take  a  playful  view  of  things. 

"  Why,  you  see,  I  've  got  a  plan  i'  my  head  about  Tom,"  said 
Mr.  Tulliver,  pausing  after  that  statement  and  lifting  up  his 
glass. 

"  Well,  if  1  may  be  allowed  to  speak,  and  it 's  seldom  as  I 
am,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  a  tone  of  bitter  meaning,  "  I  should 
like  to  know  what  good  is  to  come  to  the  boy,  by  briiigin'  him 
up  above  his  fortin." 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  not  looking  at  Mrs.  Glegg,  but 
at  the  male  part  of  his  audience,  "  you  see,  I  've  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  bring  Tom  up  to  my  own  business.  I  've  had 
my  thoughts  about  it  all  along,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  by 
what  I  saw  with  Garnett  and  Ms  son.  I  mean  to  put  him  to 
some  business,  as  he  can  go  into  without  capital,  and  I  want 
to  give  him  an  eddication  as  he  '11  be  even  wi'  the  lawyers  and 
folks,  and  put  me  up  to  a  notion  now  an'  then." 

Mrs,  Glegg  emitted  a  long  sort  of  guttural  sound  with  closed 
lips,  that  smiled  m  mingled  pity  and  scorn. 

"  It  'ud  be  a  fine  deal  better  for  some  people,"  she  said,  after 
that  introductory  note,  "  if  they  'd  let  the  lawyers  alone." 

"  Is  he  at  the  head  of  a  grammar  school,  then,  this  clergyman 
—  such  as  that  at  Market  Bewley  ?  "  said  Mr.  Deane. 

"  Ko  —  nothing  o'  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  He  won't  take 
more  than  two  or  three  pupils  —  and  so  he  '11  have  the  more 
time  to  attend  to  'em,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  and  get  his  eddication  done  the  sooner :  they  can't 
learn  much  at  a  time  when  there 's  so  many  of  'em,"  said  uncle 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  75 

Pullet,  feeling  that  he  was  getting  quite  an  insight  into  thia 
difficult  matter. 

"■  But  he  '11  want  the  more  pay,  I  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Glegg. 

"A}',  ay,  a  cool  hundred  a-year  — that 's  all,"  said  Mr.  TuUi- 
ver,  with  some  pride  at  his  own  spirited  course.  "But  then, 
you  know,  it's  an  investment j  Tom's  eddication  'uU  be  so 
much  capital  to  him." 

"  Ay,  there  's  something  m  that,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  Well, 
well,  neighbor  Tulliver,  you  may  be  right,  you  may  be  right : 

'  When  land  is  gone  and  money 's  spent, 
Then  learning  is  most  excellent ' 

I  remember  seeing  those  two  lines  wrote  on  a  window  at  Bux- 
ton. But  us  that  have  got  no  learning  had  better  keep  our- 
money,  eh,  neighbor  Pullet  ?  "  Mr.  Glegg  rubbed  his  knees 
and  looked  very  pleasant. 

"Mr.  Glegg,  I  wonder  at  you,"  said  his  wife.  "It's  very 
unbecoming  in  a  man  o'  your  age  and  belongings." 

"  What 's  unbecoming,  Mrs.  G.  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg,  winking 
pleasantly  at  the  company.  "  My  new  blue  coat  as  I  've  got 
on  ?  " 

"  I  pity  your  weakness,  Mr.  Glegg.  I  say  it 's  unbecoming 
to  be  making  a  joke  when  you  see  your  own  kin  going  head- 
longs  to  ruin." 

"  If  you  mean  me  by  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  considerably 
nettled,  "you  need  n't  trouble  yourself  to  fret  about  me.  I  can 
manage  my  own  affairs  without  troubling  other  folks." 

"Bless  me  ! "  said  Mr.  Deane,  judiciously  introducing  a  new 
idea,  "  why,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  somebody  said  Wakem 
was  going  to  send  his  son  —  the  deformed  lad  —  to  a  clergyman, 
—  did  n't  they,  Susan  ?  "  (appealing  to  his  wife). 

"  I  can  give  no  account  of  it,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Deane, 
closing  her  lips  very  tightly  again.  Mrs.  Deane  was  not  a 
woman  to  take  part  in  a  scene  where  missiles  were  flying. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  speaking  all  the  more  cheerfully, 
that  Mrs.  Glegg  might  see  he  didn't  mind  her,  "if  Wakem 
thinks  o'  sending  his  son  to  a  clergyman,  depend  on  it  I  shili 
make  no  mistake  i'  sending  Tom  to  one.     Wakem 's  as  big  a 


76  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

scoundrel  as  Old  Harry  ever  made,  but  he  knows  the  length  of 
every  man's  foot  he 's  got  to  deal  with.  Ay,  ay,  tell  me  who 's 
Wakem's  butcher,  and  I  '11  tell  you  where  to  get  your  meat." 

"  But  lawyer  Wakem's  son 's  got  a  hump-back,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  who  felt  as  if  the  whole  business  had  a  funereal  aspect ; 
''it's  more  uat'ral  to  send  him  to  a  clergyman." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  interpreting  Mrs.  Pullet's  observa- 
tion with  erroneous  plausibility,  "you  must  consider  that, 
neighbor  Tulliver ;  Wakem's  son  is  n't  likely  to  follow  any  busi- 
ness.    Wakem  'ull  make  a  gentleman  of  him,  poor  fellow." 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  her 
indignation  would  fizz  and  ooze  a  little,  though  she  was  deter- 
mined to  keep  it  corked  up,  "  you  'd  far  better  hold  your 
tongue.  Mr.  Tulliver  does  n't  want  to  know  your  opinion  nor 
mine  neither.  There 's  folks  in  the  world  as  know  better  than 
everybody  else." 

"  Why,  I  should  think  that 's  you,  if  we  're  to  trust  your  own 
tale,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  beginning  to  boil  up  again. 

"Oh,  /  say  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  sarcastically.  "My 
advice  has  never  been  asked,  and  I  don't  give  it." 

"  It  '11  be  the  first  time,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  It 's  the 
only  thing  you  're  over-ready  at  giving." 

"I've  been  over-ready  at  lending,  then,  if  I  haven't  been 
over-ready  at  giving,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  There 's  folks  I  've 
lent  money  to,  as  perhaps  I  shall  repent  o'  lending  money  to 
kin." 

"  Come,  come,  oome,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  soothingly.  But  Mr. 
Tulliver  was  not  to  be  hindered  of  his  retort. 

"  You  've  got  a  bond  for  it,  I  reckon,"  he  said ;  "  and  you  've 
had  your  five  per  cent,  kin  or  no  kin." 

"  Sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  pleadingly,  "  drink  your  wine, 
and  let  me  give  you  some  almonds  and  raisins." 

"  Bessy,  I  'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  very  much 
with  the  feeling  of  a  cur  that  seizes  the  opportunity  of  divert- 
ing his  bark  towards  the  man  who  carries  no  stick.  "  It 's 
poor  work  talking  o'  almonds  and  raisins." 

"Lors,  sister  Glegg,  don't  be  so  quarrelsome,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  beginning  to  cry  a  little.     "  You  may  be  struck  with  a 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  77 

fit,  getting  so  red  in  the  face  after  dinner,  and  we  are  but  just 
out  o'  mourning,  all  of  us  —  and  all  wi'  gowns  craped  alike 
and  just  put  by  —  it 's  very  bad  among  sisters." 

"  I  should  think  it  is  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  Things  are 
come  to  a  fine  pass  when  one  sister  invites  the  other  to  her 
house  o'  purpose  to  quarrel  with  her  and  abuse  her." 

"  Softly,  softly,  Jane  —  be  reasonable  —  be  reasonable,"  said 
Mr.  Glegg. 

But  while  he  was  speaking,  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  had  by  no 
means  said  enough  to  satisfy  his  anger,  burst  out  again. 

"  Who  wants  to  quarrel  with  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  It 's  you 
as  can't  let  people  alone,  but  must  be  gnawing  at  'em  forever. 
/  should  never  want  to  quarrel  with  any  woman  if  she  kept 
her  place." 

"  My  place,  indeed  ! "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  getting  rather  more 
shrill.  "  There  's  your  betters,  Mr.  Tulliver,  as  are  dead  and 
in  their  grave,  treated  me  with  a  different  sort  o'  respect  to 
what  you  do  —  though  I  've  got  a  husband  as  '11  sit  by  and  see 
me  abused  by  them  as  'ud  never  ha'  had  the  chance  if  there 
had  n't  been  them  in  our  family  as  married  worse  than  they 
might  ha'  done." 

"  If  you  talk  o'  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  my  family  's  as 
good  as  yours  —  and  better,  for  it  has  n't  got  a  damned  ill- 
tempered  woman  in  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  rising  from  her  chair,  "  I  don't 
know  whether  you  think  it 's  a  fine  thing  to  sit  by  and  hear 
me  swore  at,  Mr.  Glegg  ;  but  I  'm  not  going  to  stay  a  minute 
longer  in  this  house.  You  can  stay  behind,  and  come  home 
with  the  gig  —  and  I  '11  walk  home." 

"  Dear  heart,  dear  heart !  "  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  a  melancholy 
tone,  as  he  followed  his  wife  out  of  the  room. 

"  Mr.  Tulliver,  how  could  you  talk  so  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Let  her  go,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  too  hot  to  be  damped 
by  any  amount  of  tears.  "  Let  her  go,  and  the  sooner  the 
better :  she  won't  be  trying  to  domineer  over  me  again  in  a 
hurry." 

"Sister  Pullet,"  said  Mrs.    Tulliver,    helplessly,    "do  yon 


78  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

think  it  'ud  be  any  use  for  you  to  go  after  her  and  try  to 
pacify  her  ?  " 

"  Better  not,  better  not,"  said  Mr.  Deane.  "  You  '11  make 
it  up  another  day." 

"Then,  sisters,  shall  we  go  and  look  at  the  children  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  drying  her  eyes. 

No  proposition  could  have  been  more  seasonable.  Mr. 
Tulliver  felt  very  much  as  if  the  air  had  been  cleared  of  ob- 
trusive flies  now  the  women  were  out  of  the  room.  There 
were  few  things  he  liked  better  than  a  chat  Avith  Mr.  Deane, 
whose  close  application  to  business  allowed  the  pleasure  very 
rarely.  Mr.  Deane,  he  considered,  was  the  "  knowingest " 
man  of  his  acquaintance,  and  he  had  besides  a  ready  causticity 
of  tongue  that  made  an  agreeable  supplement  to  Mr.  TuUiver's 
own  tendency  that  way,  which  had  remained  in  rather  an 
inarticulate  condition.  And  now  the  women  were  gone,  they 
could  carry  on  their  serious  talk  without  frivolous  interruption. 
They  could  exchange  their  views  concerning  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  whose  conduct  in  the  Catholic  Question  had 
thrown  such  an  entirely  new  light  on  his  character ;  and 
speak  slightingly  of  his  conduct  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo, 
which  he  would  never  have  won  if  there  had  n't  been  a  great 
inany  Englishmen  at  his  back,  not  to  speak  of  Blucher  and 
the  Prussians,  who,  as  Mr.  Tulliver  had  heard  from  a  person 
of  particular  knowledge  in  that  matter,  had  come  up  in  the 
very  nick  of  time ;  though  here  there  was  a  slight  dissidence, 
Mr.  Deane  remarking  that  he  was  not  disposed  to  give  much 
credit  to  the  Prussians,  —  the  build  of  their  vessels,  together 
with  the  unsatisfactory  character  of  transactions  in  Dantzic 
beer,  inclining  him  to  form  rather  a  low  view  of  Prussian 
pluck  generally.  Rather  beaten  on  this  ground,  Mr.  Tulliver 
proceeded  to  express  his  fears  that  the  country  could  never 
again  be  what  it  used  to  be ;  but  Mr.  Deane,  attached  to  a 
firm  of  which  the  returns  were  on  the  increase,  naturally  took 
a  more  lively  view  of  the  present;  and  had  some  details  to 
give  concerning  the  state  of  the  imports,  especially  in  hides 
and  spelter,  which  soothed  Mr.  TuUiver's  imagination  by 
throwing  into  more  distant  perspective  the  period  when  the 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  79 

country  would  become  utterly  the  prey  of  Papists  and  Radi 
cals,  and  there  would  be  no  more  chance  for  honest  men. 

Uncle  Pullet  sat  by  and  listened  with  twinkling  eyes  to 
these  high  matters.  He  did  n't  understand  politics  himself 
—  thought  they  were  a  natural  gift  —  but  by  what  he  could 
make  out,  this  Duke  of  Wellington  was  no  b-^^-ter  than  he 
should  be. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MK.    TULLIVER    SHOWS    HIS   WEAKER    SIDE. 

"Suppose  sister  Glegg  should  call  her  money  in  —  it  'ud  be 
very  awkward  for  you  to  have  to  raise  five  hundred  pounds 
now/'  said  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  her  husband  that  evening,  as  she 
took  a  plaintive  review  of  the  day. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  lived  thirteen  years  with  her  husband, 
yet  she  retained  in  all  the  freshness  of  her  early  married  life  a 
facility  of  saying  things  which  drove  him  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion to  the  one  she  desired.  Some  minds  are  wonderful  for 
keeping  their  bloom  in  this  way,  as  a  patriarchal  gold-fish 
apparently  retains  to  the  last  its  youthful  illusion  that  it  can 
swim  in  a  straight  line  beyond  the  encircling  glass.  Mrs. 
Tulliver  was  an  amiable  fish  of  this  kind,  and,  after  running 
her  head  against  the  same  resisting  medium  for  thirteen  years, 
would  go  at  it  again  to-day  with  undulled  alacrity. 

This  observation  of  hers  tended  directly  to  convince  Mr. 
Tulliver  that  it  would  not  be  at  all  awkward  for  him  to  raise 
five  hundved  pounds  ;  and  when  Mrs.  Tulliver  became  rather 
pressing  to  know  hotv  he  would  raise  it  without  mortgaging 
the  mill  and  the  house  which  he  had  said  he  never  would  mort- 
gage, since  nowadays  people  were  none  so  ready  to  lend  money 
without  security,  Mr.  Tulliver,  getting  warm,  declared  that 
Mrs.  Glegg  might  do  as  she  liked  about  calling  in  her  money 
■^he  should  pay  it  in,  whether  or  not.  He  was  not  going  to 
be  beholden  to  his  wife's  sisters.     When  a  man  had  married 


80  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

into  a  family  where  there  was  a  whole  litter  of  women,  he  might 
have  plenty  to  put  up  with  if  he  chose.  But  Mr.  TuUiver  did 
not  choose 

Mrs  Tulliver  cried  a  little  in  a  trickling  quiet  way  as  she 
put  on  her  nightcap;  but  presently  sank  into  a  comfortable 
sleep,  lulled  by  the  thought  that  she  would  talk  everything 
over  with  her  sister  Pullet  to-morrow,  when  she  was  to  take 
the  children  to  Garum  Firs  to  tea.  ISTot  that  she  looked  for- 
ward to  any  distinct  issue  from  that  talk ;  but  it  seemed  im- 
possible that  past  events  should  be  so  obstinate  as  to  remain 
unmodified  when  they  were  complained  against. 

Her  husband  lay  awake  rather  longer,  for  he  too  was  thinking 
of  a  visit  he  would  pay  on  tbe  morrow ;  and  his  ideas  on  the 
subject  were  not  of  so  vague  and  soothing  a  kind  as  tnose  of 
his  amiable  partner. 

Mr  Tulliver,  when  under  the  influence  of  a  strong  feeling, 
had  a  promptitude  in  action  that  may  seem  inconsistent  with 
that  painful  sense  of  the  complicated  puzzling  nature  of  human 
affairs  under  which  his  more  dispassionate  deliberations  were 
conducted ;  but  it  is  really  not  improbable  that  there  was  a 
direct  relation  between  these  apparently  contradictory  phe- 
nomena, since  I  have  observed  that  for  getting  a  strong  impres- 
sion that  a  skein  is  tangled,  there  is  nothing  like  snatching 
hastily  at  a  single  thread.  It  was  owing  to  this  promptitude 
that  Mr.  Tulliver  was  on  horseback  soon  after  dinner  the  next 
day  (he  was  not  dyspeptic)  on  his  way  to  Basset  to  see  his 
sister  Moss  and  her  husband.  For  having  made  up  his  mind 
irrevocably  that  he  would  pay  Mrs.  Glegg  her  loan  of  five 
hundred  pounds^  it  naturally  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  a 
promissory -note  for  three  hundred  pounds  lent  to  his  brother- 
in-law  Moss,  and  if  the  said  brother-in-law  could  manage  to 
pay  in  the  money  within  a  given  time,  it  would  go  far  to 
lessen  the  fallacious  air  of  inconvenience  which  Mr.  Tulliver's 
spirited  step  might  have  worn  in  the  eyes  of  weak  people  who 
require  to  know  precisely  how  a  thing  is  to  be  done  before  they 
are  strongly  confident  that  it  will  be  easy. 

For  Mr.  Tulliver  was  in  a  position  neither  new  nor  striking, 
but,   like  other  every-day  things,  sure  to  have  a  cumulative 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  81 

effect  that  will  be  felt  in  the  long-run :  he  was  held  to  be  a 
much  more  substantial  man  than  he  really  was.  And  as  we 
are  all  apt  to  believe  what  the  world  believes  about  us,  it  was 
his  habit  to  think  of  failure  and  ruin  with  the  same  sort  of 
remote  pity  with  which  a  spare  long-necked  man  hears  that 
his  plethoric  short-necked  neighbor  is  stricken  with  apoplexy. 
He  had  been  always  used  to  hear  pleasant  jokes  about  his 
advantages  as  a  man  who  worked  his  own  mill,  and  owned  a 
pretty  bit  of  land;  and  these  jokes  naturally  kept  up  his  sense 
that  he  was  a  man  of  considerable  substance.  They  gave  a 
pleasant  flavor  to  his  glass  on  a  market-day,  and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  recurrence  of  half-yearly  payments,  Mr.  Tulliver 
would  really  have  forgotten  that  there  was  a  mortgage  of  two 
thousand  pounds  on  his  very  desirable  freehold.  That  was 
not  altogether  his  own  fault,  since  one  of  the  thousand  pounds 
was  his  sister's  fortune,  which  he  had  to  pay  on  her  marriage ; 
and  a  man  who  has  neighbors  that  will  go  to  law  with  him,  is 
not  likely  to  pay  off  his  mortgages,  especially  if  he  enjoys  the 
good  opinion  of  acquaintances  who  want  to  borrow  a  hundred 
pounds  on  security  too  lofty  to  be  represented  by  parchment. 
Our  friend  Mr.  Tulliver  had  a  good-natured  fibre  in  him,  and 
did  not  like  to  give  harsh  refusals  even  to  a  sister,  who  had  not 
only  come  into  the  world  in  that  superfluous  way  characteristic 
of  sisters,  creating  a  necessity  for  mortgages,  but  had  quite 
thrown  herself  away  m  marriage,  and  had  crowned  her  mis- 
takes by  having  an  eighth  baby.  On  this  point  Mr.  Tulliver  was 
conscious  of  being  a  little  weak ;  but  he  apologized  to  himself 
by  saying  that  poor  Gritty  had  been  a  good-looking  wench 
before  she  married  Moss  —  he  would  sometimes  say  this  even 
with  a  slight  tremulousness  in  his  voice.  But  this  morning  he 
was  in  a  mood  more  becoming  a  man  of  business,  and  in  the 
course  of  his  ride  along  the  Basset  lanes,  with  their  deep  ruts, 
—  lying  so  far  away  from  a  market-town  that  the  lahor  of 
drawing  produce  and  manure  was  enough  to  take  away  the 
best  part  of  the  profits  on  such  poor  land  as  that  parish  was 
made  of,  —  he  got  up  a  due  amount  of  irritation  against  Moss 
as  a  man  without  capital  who,  if  murrain  and  blight  were 
abroad,  was  sure  to  have  his  share  of  them,  and  who,  the  more 

TOL.    II.  6 


82  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

you  tried  to  help  him  out  of  the  mud,  would  sink  the  further 
in.  It  would  do  him  good  rather  than  harm,  now,  if  he  were 
obliged  to  raise  this  three  hundred  pounds :  it  would  make 
him  look  about  him  better,  and  not  act  so  foolishly  about  his 
wool  this  year  as  he  did  the  last :  in  fact,  Mr.  TuUiver  had 
been  too  easy  with  his  brother-in-law,  and  because  he  had  let 
the  interest  run  on  for  two  years.  Moss  was  likely  enough  to 
think  that  he  should  never  be  troubled  about  the  principal. 
But  Mr.  Tulliver  was  determined  not  to  encourage  such  shuf- 
fling people  any  longer;  and  a  ride  along  the  Basset  lanes 
was  not  likely  to  enervate  a  man's  resolution  by  softening  his 
temper.  The  deep-trodden  hoof-marks,  made  m  the  muddiest 
days  of  winter,  gave  him  a  shake  now  and  then  which  sug- 
gested a  rash  but  stimulating  snarl  at  the  father  of  lawyers, 
who,  whether  by  means  of  his  hoof  or  otherwise,  had  doubtless 
something  to  do  with  this  state  of  the  roads ;  and  the  abun- 
dance of  foul  land  and  neglected  fences  that  met  his  eye,  though 
they  made  no  part  of  his  brother  Moss's  farm,  strongly  con- 
tributed to  his  dissatisfaction  with  that  unlucky  agriculturist. 
If  this  was  n't  Moss's  fallow,  it  might  have  been :  Basset  was 
all  alike ;  it  was  a  beggarly  parish  in  Mr.  Tulliver's  opinion, 
and  his  ojDinion  was  certainly  not  groundless.  Basset  had  a 
poor  soil,  poor  roads,  a  poor  non-resident  landlord,  a  poor  non- 
resident vicar,  and  rather  less  than  half  a  curate,  also  poor.  If 
any  one  strongly  impressed  with  the  power  of  the  human  mind 
to  triumph  over  circumstances,  will  contend  that  the  parish- 
ioners of  Basset  might  nevertheless  have  been  a  very  superior 
class  of  people,  I  have  nothing  to  urge  against  that  abstract 
propcEition ;  I  only  know  that,  in  point  of  fact,  the  Basset 
mind  was  in  strict  keeping  with  its  circumstances.  The  muddy 
lanes,  green  or  clayey,  that  seemed  to  the  unaccustomed  eye 
to  lead  nowhere  but  into  each  other,  did  really  lead,  with 
patience,  to  a  distant  highroad ;  but  there  were  many  feet  in 
Basset  which  they  led  more  frequently  to  a  centre  of  dissipa- 
tion, spoken  of  formerly  as  the  "  Markis  o'  Granby,"  but  among 
intimates  as  "  Dickison's."  A  large  low  room  with  a  sanded 
floor,  a  cold  scent  of  tobacco,  modified  by  undetected  beer- 
dregs,  Mr.  Dickison  leaning  against  the  doorpost  with  a  melan- 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  83 

chol}  pimpled  face,  looking  as  irrelevant  to  the  daylight  as  a 
last  night's  guttered  candle  —  all  this  may  not  seem  a  very 
seductive  form  of  temptation  ;  but  the  majority  of  men  in 
Basset  found  it  fatally  alluring  when  encountered  on  their 
road  towards  four  o'clock  on  a  wintry  afternoon  ;  and  if  any 
wife  in  Basset  wished  to  indicate  that  her  husband  was  not  a 
pleasure-seeking  man,  she  could  hardly  do  it  more  emphatically 
than  by  saying  that  he  did  n't  spend  a  shilling  at  Dickison's 
from  one  Whitsuntide  to  another.  Mrs.  Moss  had  said  so  of 
her  husband  more  than  once,  when  her  brother  was  in  a  mood 
to  find  fault  with  him,  as  he  certainly  was  to-day.  And  noth- 
ing could  be  less  pacifying  to  Mr.  Tulliver  than  the  behavior 
of  the  farmyard  gate,  which  he  no  sooner  attempted  to  push 
open  with  his  riding-stick,  than  it  acted  as  gates  without  the 
upper  hinge  are  known  to  do,  to  the  peril  of  shins,  whether 
equine  or  human.  He  was  about  to  get  down  and  lead  his 
horse  through  the  damp  dirt  of  the  hollow  farmyard,  shadowed 
drearily  by  the  large  half-timbered  buildings,  up  to  the  long 
line  of  tumble-down  dwelling-houses  standing  on  a  raised  cause- 
way ;  but  the  timely  appearance  of  a  cowboy  saved  him  that 
frustration  of  a  plan  he  had  determined  on  —  namely,  not  to 
get  down  from  his  horse  during  this  visit.  If  a  man  means  to 
be  hard,  let  him  keep  in  his  saddle  and  speak  from  that  height, 
above  the  level  of  pleading  eyes,  and  with  the  command  of  a 
distant  horizon.  Mrs.  Moss  heard  the  sound  of  the  horse's 
feet,  and,  when  her  brother  rode  up,  was  already  outside  the 
kitchen  door,  with  a  half-weary  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  black- 
eyed  baby  in  her  arms.  Mrs.  Moss's  face  bore  a  faded  resem- 
blance to  her  brother's  ;  baby's  little  fat  hand,  pressed  against 
her  cheek,  seemed  to  show  more  strikingly  that  the  cheek  was 
faded. 

"  Brother,  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  in  an  affectionate 
tone.     ''  I  did  n't  look  for  you  to-day.     How  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  Oh  .  .  .  pretty  well,  Mrs.  Moss  .  .  .  pretty  well,"  an- 
swered the  brother,  with  cool  deliberation,  as  if  it  were  rather 
too  forward  of  her  to  ask  that  question.  She  knew  at  once 
that  her  brother  was  not  in  a  good  humor :  he  never  called  her 
Mrs.  Moss  except  when  he  was  angry,  and  when  they  were  in 


84  THE    MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

company.  Bat  she  liiought  it  was  in  the  order  of  nature  that 
people  who  were  poorly  off  should  be  snubbed.  Mrs.  Moss  did 
not  take  her  stand  on  the  equality  of  the  human  race  :  she  was 
a  patient,  prolific,  loving-hearted  woman. 

'■'  Your  husband  is  n't  in  the  house,  I  sxippose  ?  "  added  Mr. 
Tulliver,  after  a  grave  pause,  during  which  four  children  had 
run  out,  like  chickens  whose  mother  has  been  suddenly  in 
eclipse  behind  the  hencoop. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  "  but  he  's  only  in  the  potato-field 
yonders.  Georgy,  run  to  the  Far  Close  in  a  minute,  and  tell 
father  your  uncle 's  come.  You  '11  get  down,  brother,  won't  you, 
and  take  something  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  can't  get  down.  I  must  be  going  home  again 
directly,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  looking  at  the  distance, 

"And  how's  Mrs.  Tulliver  and  the  children?"  said  Mrs. 
Moss,  humbly;  not  daring  to  press  her  invitation. 

"  Oh  .  .  .  pretty  well.  Tom  's  going  to  a  new  school  at 
Midsummer  —  a  deal  of  expense  to  me.  It 's  bad  work  for 
me,  lying  out  o'  my  money." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  be  so  good  as  let  the  children  come  and  see 
their  cousins  some  day.  My  little  uns  want  to  see  their  cousin 
Maggie,  so  as  never  was.  And  me  her  godmother,  and  so 
fond  of  her  —  there 's  nobody  'ud  make  a  bigger  fuss  with  her, 
according  to  what  they  've  got.  And  I  know  she  likes  to  come, 
for  she  's  a  loving  child,  and  how  quick  and  clever  she  is,  to 
be  sure  ! " 

If  Mrs.  Moss  had  been  one  of  the  most  astute  women  in  the 
world,  instead  of  being  one  of  the  simplest,  she  coidd  have 
thought  of  nothing  more  likely  to  propitiate  her  brother  than 
this  praise  of  Maggie.  He  seldom  found  any  one  volunteering 
praise  of  "  the  little  wench :  "  it  was  usually  left  entirely  to 
himself  to  insist  on  her  merits.  But  Maggie  always  appeared 
in  the  most  amiable  light  at  her  aunt  Moss's  :  it  was  her 
Alsatia,  where  she  was  out  of  the  reach  of  law  —  if  she  upset 
anything,  dirtied  her  shoes^  or  tore  her  frock,  these  things 
were  matters  of  course  at  'I'^r  aunt  Moss's.  In  spite  of  him- 
self, Mr.  Tulliver's  eyes  got  milder,  and  he  did  not  look  away 
from  his  sister,  as  he  said  -  -  • 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  85 

"  A.y  :  she 's  fonder  o'  you  than  o'  the  other  aunts,  I  think. 
She  takes  after  our  family  :  not  a  bit  of  her  mother  's  in 
her." 

"Moss  says  she's  just  like  what  I  used  to  be,"  said  Mrs. 
Moss,  "  though  I  was  never  so  quick  and  fond  o'  the  books. 
But  I  think  my  Lizzy  's  like  her  —  she  's  sharp.  Come  here, 
Lizzy,  my  dear,  and  let  your  uncle  see  you  ;  he  hardly  knows 
you  ;  you  grow  so  fast." 

Lizzy,  a  black -eyed  child  of  seven,  looked  very  shy  when 
her  mother  drew  her  forward,  for  the  small  Mosses  were  much 
m  awe  of  their  uncle  from  Dorlcote  Mill.  She  was  inferior 
enough  to  Maggie  m  fire  and  strength  of  expression,  to  make 
the  resemblance  between  the  two  entirely  flattering  to  Mr. 
Tulliver's  fatherly  love. 

*^Ay,  they  're  a  bit  alike,"  he  said,  looking  kindly  at  the  lit- 
tle figure  in  the  soiled  pinafore.  ''  They  both  take  after  our 
mother.  You  've  got  enough  o'  gells,  Gritty,"  he  added,  in  a 
tone  half  compassionate,  half  reproachful. 

"Four  of  'em,  bless  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  with  a  sigh,  strok- 
ing Lizzy's  hair  on  each  side  of  her  forehead  j  ''  as  many  as 
there  's  boys.     They  've  got  a  brother  apiece." 

"  Ah,  but  they  must  turn  out  and  fend  for  themselves,"  said 
Mr.  Tulliver,  feeling  that  his  severity  was  relaxing,  and  trying 
to  brace  it  by  throwing  out  a  wholesome  hint.  *•'  They  must  n't 
look  to  hanging  on  their  brothers." 

"No:  but  I  hope  their  brothers  'ull  love  the  poor  things, 
and  remember  they  came  o'  one  father  and  mother :  the  lads 
'ull  never  be  the  poorer  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  flashing  out 
with  hurried  timidity,  like  a  half-smothered  fire. 

Mr.  Tulliver  gave  his  horse  a  little  stroke  on  the  flank,  then 
checked  it,  and  said,  angrily,  "  Stand  still  with  you ! "  much  to 
the  astonishment  of  that  innocent  animal. 

"And  the  more  there  is  of  'em,  the  more  they  must  love 
one  another,"  Mrs.  Moss  went  on,  looking  at  her  children  with 
a  didactic  purpose.  But  she  turned  towards  her  brother  again 
to  say,  "Not  but  what  I  hope  your  boy  'ull  allays  be  good 
to  his  sister,  though  there 's  but  two  of  'em,  like  you  and  me, 
brother." 


8(1  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

That  arrow  went  straight  to  Mr.  Tulliver's  heart.  He  had 
not  a  rapid  iiaagination,  but  the  tliouglit  of  Maggie  was  very 
near  to  him,  and  he  was  not  long  in  seeing  his  relation  to  his 
own  sister  side  by  side  with  Tom's  relation  to  Maggie.  Would 
the  little  wench  ever  be  poorly  off,  and  Tom  rather  hard  upon 
lier  ? 

"  Ay.  ay.  Gritty,"  said  the  miller,  with  a  new  softness  in  his 
tone  ;  "but  I've  allays  done  what  I  could  for  you,"  he  added, 
as  if  vindicating  himself  from  a  reproach. 

"  I  'm  not  denying  that,  brother,  and  I  'm  noways  ungrate- 
ful," said  poor  Mrs.  Moss,  too  fagged  by  toil  and  children 
to  have  strength  left  for  any  pride.  "  But  here 's  the  father. 
What  a  while  you  've  been,  Moss  ! " 

"  While,  do  you  call  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Moss,  feeling  out  of  breath 
and  injured.  "  I  've  been  running  all  the  way.  Won't  you 
'light,  Mr.  Tulliver?" 

"  Well,  I  '11  just  get  down  and  have  a  bit  o'  talk  with  you 
in  the  garden,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  thinking  that  he  should  be 
more  likely  to  show  a  due  spirit  of  resolve  if  his  sister  were 
not  present. 

He  got  down,  and  passed  with  Mr.  Moss  into  the  garden, 
towards  an  old  yew-tree  arbor,  while  his  sister  stood  tapping 
her  baby  on  the  back,  and  looking  wistfully  after  them. 

Their  entrance  into  the  yew-tree  arbor  surprised  several 
fowls  that  were  recreating  themselves  by  scratching  deep 
holes  in  the  dusty  ground,  and  at  once  took  flight  with  much 
pother  and  cackling.  Mr.  Tulliver  sat  down  on  the  bench,  and 
tapping  the  ground  curiously  here  and  there  with  his  stick,  as 
if  he  suspected  some  hollowness,  opened  the  conversation  by 
observing,  with  something  like  a  snarl  in  his  tone  — 

"  Why,  you  've  got  wheat  again  in  that  Corner  Close,  1  see ; 
and  never  a  bit  o'  dressing  on  it.  You  '11  do  no  good  with  it 
this  year." 

Mr.  Moss,  who,  when  he  married  Miss  Tulliver,  had  been 
regarded  as  the  buck  of  Basset,  now  wore  a  beard  nearly  a 
week  old,  and  had  the  depressed,  unexpectant  air  of  a  machine- 
horse.  He  answered  in  a  patient-grumbling  tone,  "Why,  poor 
farmers  like  me  must  do  as  they  can :  they  must  leave  it  to 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  87 

them  as  have  got  money  to  play  with,  to  put  half  as  much 
iuto  the  ground  as  they  mean  to  get  out  of  it." 

*'  I  don't  know  who  should  have  money  to  play  with,  if  it 
is  n't  them  as  can  borrow  money  without  paying  interest," 
said  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  wished  to  get  into  a  slight  quarrel ; 
it  was  the  most  natural  and  easy  introduction  to  calling  in 
money. 

"I  know  I'm  behind  with  the  interest,"  said  Mr.  Moss,  "but 
I  was  so  unlucky  wi'  the  wool  last  year;  and  what  with  the 
Missis  being  laid  up  so,  things  have  gone  awk'arder  nor 
usual." 

"Ay,"  snarled  Mr.  Tulliver,  "there 's  folks  as  things  'ull  allays 
go  awk'ard  with .  empty  sacks  'ull  never  stand  upright." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  fault  you  've  got  to  find  wi'  me, 
Mr.  Tulliver,"  said  Mr.  Moss,  deprecatingly ;  "  I  know  there 
is  n't  a  day-laborer  works  harder." 

"What's  the  use  o'  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  sharply,  "when 
a  man  marries,  and 's  got  no  capital  to  work  his  farm  but  his 
wife's  bit  o'  fortm  ?  I  was  against  it  from  the  first ;  but 
you  'd  neither  of  you  listen  to  me.  And  I  can't  lie  out  o'  my 
money  any  longer,  for  I  've  got  to  pay  five  hundred  o'  Mrs, 
Glegg's,  and  there'll  be  Tom  an  expense  to  me — I  should  find 
myself  short,  even  saying  I  'd  got  back  all  as  is  my  own.  You 
must  look  about  and  see  how  you  can  pay  me  the  three  hun- 
dred pound." 

"Well,  if  that's  what  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  Moss,  looking 
blankly  before  him,  "  we  'd  better  be  sold  up,  and  ha'  done 
with  it ;  I  must  part  wi'  every  head  o'  stock  I  've  got,  to  pay 
you  and  the  landlord  too." 

Poor  relations  are  undeniably  irritating  —  their  existence  is 
so  entirely  uncalled  for  on  our  part,  and  they  are  almost  al- 
ways very  faulty  people.  Mr.  Tulliver  had  succeeded  in  get- 
ting quite  as  much  irritated  with  Mr.  Moss  as  he  had  desired, 
and  he  was  able  to  say  angrily,  rising  from  his  seat  — 

"  Well,  you  must  do  as  you  can.  /  can't  find  money  for 
ererybody  else  as  well  as  myself.  I  must  look  to  my  own 
business  and  my  own  family.  I  can't  lie  out  o'  my  money 
any  longer.     You  must  raise  it  as  quick  as  you  can.'"' 


88  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

Mr.  Tulliver  walked  abruptly  out  of  the  arbor  as  he  uttered 
the  last  sentence,  and,  without  looking  round  at  Mr.  Moss, 
went  on  to  the  kitchen  door,  where  the  eldest  boy  was  holding 
his  horse,  and  his  sister  was  waiting  in  a  state  of  wondering 
alarm,  which  was  not  without  its  alleviations,  for  baby  was 
making  pleasant  gurgling  sounds,  and  performing  a  great  deal 
of  finger  practice  on  the  faded  face.  Mrs.  Moss  had  eight 
children,  but  could  never  overcome  her  regret  that  the  twins 
had  not  lived.  Mr.  Moss  thought  their  removal  was  not  with- 
out its  consolations.  "  Won't  you  come  in,  brother?  "  she  said, 
looking  anxiously  at  her  husband,  who  was  walking  slowly  up, 
while  Mr.  Tulliver  had  his  foot  already  in  the  stirrup. 

"  No,  no ;  good-by,"  said  he,  turning  his  horse's  head,  and 
riding  away. 

No  man  could  feel  more  resolute  till  he  got  outside  the  yard 
gate,  and  a  little  way  along  the  deep-rutted  lane ;  but  before 
he  reached  the  next  turning,  which  would  take  him  out  of 
sight  of  the  dilajoidated  farm-buildings,  he  appeared  to  be 
smitten  by  some  sudden  thought.  He  checked  his  horse,  and 
made  it  stand  still  in  the  same  spot  for  two  or  three  minutei., 
during  which  he  turned  his  head  from  side  to  side  in  a  melan- 
choly way,  as  if  he  were  looking  at  some  painful  object  oi) 
more  sides  than  one.  Evidently,  after  his  fit  of  promptitude, 
Mr.  Tulliver  was  relapsing  into  the  sense  that  this  is  a  puzzling 
world.  He  turned  his  horse,  and  rode  slowly  back,  giving  vent 
to  the  climax  of  feeling  which  had  determined  this  movement 
by  saying  aloud,  as  he  struck  his  horse,  "  Poor  little  wench ! 
she  '11  have  nobody  but  Tom,  belike,  when  I  'm  gone." 

Mr.  Tulliver's  return  into  the  yard  was  descried  by  sev- 
eral young  Mosses,  who  immediately  ran  in  with  the  exciting 
news  to  their  mother,  so  that  Mrs.  Moss  was  again  on  the  door- 
step when  her  brother  rode  up.  She  had  been  crying,  but  was 
rocking  baby  to  sleep  in  her  arms  now,  and  made  no  ostenta- 
tious show  of  sorrow  as  her  brother  looked  at  her,  but  merely 
said  — 

"  The  father  's  gone  to  the  field  again,  if  you  want  him, 
brother." 

"  No,  Gritty,  no,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  a  gentle  tone.    "Don't 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  gg 

you  fret  —  that 's  all  —  I  '11  make  a  shift  without  the  money  a 
bit  —  only  you  must  be  as  clever  and  contriving  as  you  can." 

Mrs.  Moss's  tears  came  again  at  this  unexpected  kindness, 
and  she  could  say  nothing. 

"  Come,  come  !  —  the  little  wench  shall  come  and  see  you. 
I  '11  bring  her  and  Tom  some  day  before  he  goes  to  school. 
You  must  n't  fret  ...  I  '11  allays  be  a  good  brother  to  you." 

"Thank  you  for  that  word,  brother,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  drying 
her  tears  ;  then  turning  to  Lizzy,  she  said,  "  Run  now,  and 
fetch  the  colored  egg  for  cousin  Maggie."  Lizzy  ran  in,  and 
quickly  reappeared  with  a  small  paper  parcel. 

"It's  boiled  hard,  brother,  and  colored  with  thrums  —  very 
pretty  :  it  was  done  o'  purpose  for  Maggie.  Will  you  please 
to  carry  it  in  your  pocket  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  putting  it  carefully  in  his  side- 
pocket.     "  Good-by." 

And  so  the  respectable  miller  returned  along  the  Basset 
lanes  rather  more  puzzled  than  before  as  to  ways  and  means, 
but  still  with  the  sense  of  a  danger  escaped.  It  had  come 
across  his  mind  that  if  he  were  hard  upon  his  sister,  it  might 
somehow  tend  to  make  Tom  hard  upon  Maggie  at  some  dis- 
tant day,  when  her  father  was  no  longer  there  to  take  her 
part ;  for  simple  people,  like  our  friend  Mr.  Tulliver,  are  apt 
to  clothe  unimpeachable  feelings  in  erroneous  ideas,  and  this 
was  his  confused  way  of  explaining  to  himself  that  his  love 
and  anxiety  for  "  the  little  wench  "  had  given  him  a  new 
sensibility  towards  his  sister. 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

TO     GARUM     FIRS. 


While  the  possible  troubles  of  Maggie's  future  were  occu- 
pying her  father's  mind,  she  herself  was  tasting  only  the 
bitterness  of  the  present.  Childhood  has  no  forebodings  .  but 
then,  it  is  soothed  by  no  memories  of  outlived  sorrow. 


90  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

The  fact  was,  the  day  had  begun  ill  with  Maggie.  The 
pleasure  of  having  Lucy  to  look  at,  and  the  prospect  of  the 
afternoon  visit  to  Garum  Firs,  where  she  would  hear  uncle 
Pullet's  musical  box,  had  been  marred  as  early  as  eleven 
o'clock  by  the  advent  of  the  hairdresser  from  St.  Ogg's,  who 
had  spoken  in  the  severest  terms  of  the  condition  in  which  he 
had  found  her  hair,  holding  up  one  jagged  lock  after  another 
and  saying,  "  See  here  !  tut  —  tut  —  tut !  "  in  a  tone  of  min- 
gled disgust  and  pity,  which  to  Maggie's  imagination  was 
equivalent  to  the  strongest  expression  of  public  opinion.  Mr. 
Eappit,  the  hairdresser,  with  his  well-anointed  coronal  locks 
tending  wavily  upward,  like  the  simulated  pyramid  of  flame 
on  a  monumental  urn,  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment  the  most 
formidable  of  her  contemporaries,  into  whose  street  at  St. 
Ogg's  she  would  carefully  refrain  from  entering  through  the 
rest  of  her  life. 

Moreover,  the  preparation  for  a  visit  being  ahvays  a  serious 
affair  in  the  Dodson  family,  Martha  was  enjoined  to  have 
Mrs.  Tulliver's  room  ready  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  that 
the  laying  out  of  the  best  clothes  might  not  be  deferred  till 
the  last  moment,  as  was  sometimes  the  case  in  families  of  lax 
views,  where  the  ribbon-strings  were  never  rolled  up,  where 
there  was  little  or  no  wrapping  in  silver  paper,  and  where 
the  sense  that  the  Sunday  clothes  could  be  got  at  quite  easily 
produced  no  shock  to  the  mind.  Already,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
Mrs.  Tulliver  had  on  her  visiting  costume,  with  a  protective 
apparatus  of  brown  holland,  as  if  she  had  been  a  piece  of 
satin  furniture  in  danger  of  flies  ;  Maggie  was  frowning  and 
twisting  her  shoulders,  that  she  might  if  possible  shrink  away 
from  the  prickliest  of  tuckers,  while  her  mother  was  remon- 
strating, "  Don't,  Maggie,  my  dear  —  don't  make  yourself  so 
ugly  ! "  and  Tom's  cheeks  were  looking  particularly  brilliant 
as  a  relief  to  his  best  blue  suit,  which  he  wore  with  becoming 
calmness ;  having,  after  a  little  wrangling,  effected  what  was 
always  the  one  point  of  interest  to  him  in  his  toilet  —  he  had 
transferred  all  the  contents  of  his  every-day  pockets  to  those 
actually  in  wear. 

As  for  Lucy,  she  was  just  as  pretty  and  neat  as  she  had 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  91 

been  yesterday :  no  accidents  ever  happened  to  her  clothes, 

and  she  was  never  uncomfortable  in  them,  so  that  she  looked 
with  wondering  pity  at  Maggie  pouting  and  writhing  under 
the  exasperating  tucker.  Maggie  would  certainly  have  torn 
it  off,  if  she  had  not  been  checked  by  the  remembrance  of  her 
recent  humiliation  about  her  hair  :  as  it  was,  she  confined  her- 
self to  fretting  and  twisting,  and  behaving  peevishly  about 
the  card-houses  which  they  were  allowed  to  build  till  dinner, 
as  a  suitable  amusement  for  boys  and  girls  in  their  best 
clothes.  Tom  could  build  perfect  pyramids  of  houses  ;  but 
Maggie's  would  never  bear  the  laying  on  of  the  roof :  ■ —  it  was 
always  so  with  the  things  that  Maggie  made  ;  and  Tom  had 
deduced  the  conclusion  that  no  girls  could  ever  make  any- 
thing. But  it  happened  that  Lucy  proved  wonderfully  clever 
at  building :  she  handled  the  cards  so  lightly,  and  moved  so 
gently,  that  Tom  condescended  to  admire  her  houses  as  well 
as  his  own,  the  more  readily  because  she  had  asked  him  tc 
teach  her.  Maggie,  too,  would  have  admired  Lucy's  houses, 
and  would  have  given  up  her  own  unsuccessful  building  to 
contemplate  them,  without  ill-temper,  if  her  tucker  had  not 
made  her  peevish,  and  if  Tom  had  not  inconsiderately  laughed 
when  her  houses  fell,  and  told  her  she  was  "  a  stupid." 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Tom  !  "  she  burst  out,  angrily  ;  "  I  'm 
not  a  stupid.     I  know  a  great  many  things  you  don't." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say.  Miss  Spitfire !  I  'd  never  be  such  a 
cross  thing  as  you  —  making  faces  like  that.  Lucy  does  n't 
do  so.  I  like  Lucy  better  than  you  :  /  wish  Lucy  was  my 
sister." 

"  Then  it 's  very  wicked  and  cruel  of  you  to  wish  so,"  said 
Maggie,  starting  up  hurriedly  from  her  place  on  the  floor,  and 
upsetting  Tom's  wonderful  pagoda.  She  really  did  not  mean 
it,  but  the  circumstantial  evidence  was  against  her,  and  Tom 
turned  white  with  auger,  but  said  nothing :  he  would  have 
struck  her,  only  he  knew  it  was  cowardly  to  strike  a  girl,  and 
Tom  Tulliver  was  quite  determined  he  would  never  do  any- 
thing cowardly. 

Maggie  stood  in  dismay  and  terror,  while  Tom  got  up  from 
the  floor  and  walked  away,  pale,  from  the  scattered  ruins  of 


92  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

his  pagoda,  and  Lucy  looked  on  mutely,  like  a  kitten  pausing 
from  its  lapping. 

"Oh,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  at  last,  going  half-way  towards 
him,  "  I  did  n't  mean  to  knock  it  down  —  indeed,  indeed  I 
did  n't." 

Tom  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  took,  instead,  two  or  three 
hard  peas  out  of  his  pocket,  and  shot  them  with  his  thumb- 
nail against  the  window  —  vaguely  at  first,  but  presently  with 
the  distinct  aim  of  hitting  a  superannuated  blue-bottle  which 
was  exposing  its  imbecility  in  the  spring  sunshine,  clearly 
against  the  views  of  Nature,  who  had  provided  Tom  and  the 
peas  for  the  speedy  destruction  of  this  weak  individual. 

Thus  the  morning  had  been  made  heavy  to  Maggie,  and 
Tom's  persistent  coldness  to  her  all  through  their  walk  spoiled 
the  fresh  air  and  sunshine  for  her.  He  called  Lucy  to  look  at 
the  half-built  bird's  nest  without  caring  to  show  it  Maggie, 
and  peeled  a  willow  switch  for  Lucy  and  himself,  without 
offering  one  to  Maggie.  Lucy  had  said,  "  Maggie,  should  n't 
you  like  one  ?  "  but  Tom  was  deaf. 

Still  the  sight  of  the  peacock  opportunely  spreading  his  tail 
on  the  stackyard  wall,  just  as  they  reached  Garum  Firs,  was 
enough  to  divert  the  mind  temporarily  from  personal  griev- 
ances. And  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  beautiful  sights  at 
Garum  Firs.  All  the  farmyard  life  was  wonderful  there  — 
bantams,  speckled  and  top-knotted  ;  Friesland  hens,  with  their 
feathers  all  turned  the  wrong  way  ;  Guinea-fowls  that  flew 
and  screamed  and  dropped  their  pretty-spotted  feathers  ; 
pouter-pigeons  and  a  tame  magpie ;  nay,  a  goat,  and  a  won- 
derful brindled  dog,  half  mastiff,  half  bull-dog,  as  large  as  a 
lion.  Then  there  were  white  railings  and  white  gates  all 
about,  and  glittering  weathercocks  of  various  design,  and 
garden-walks  paved  with  pebbles  in  beautiful  patterns  —  noth- 
ing was  quite  common  at  Garum  Firs :  and  Tom  thought 
that  the  unusual  size  of  the  toads  there  was  simply  due  to 
the  general  unusualness  which  characterized  uncle  Pullet's 
possessions  as  a  gentleman  farmer.  Toads  who  paid  rent 
were  naturally  leaner.  As  for  the  house,  it  was  not  less 
remarkable  ;   it  had  a  receding  centre,  and  two   wings    with 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  93 

battlemented  turrets,  and  was  covered  with  glittering  white 
stucco. 

Uncle  Pullet  had  seen  the  expected  party  approaching  from 
the  window,  and  made  haste  to  unbar  and  unchain  the  front 
door,  kept  always  in  this  fortified  condition  from  fear  of 
tramps,  who  might  be  supposed  to  know  of  the  glass-case  of 
stuffed  birds  in  the  hall,  and  to  contemplate  rushing  in  and 
carrying  it  away  on  their  heads.  Aunt  Pullet,  too,  appeared 
at  the  doorway,  and  as  soon  as  her  sister  was  within  hearing 
said,  "  Stop  the  children,  for  God's  sake,  Bessy  —  don't  let  'em 
come  up  the  door-steps  :  Sally  's  bringing  the  old  mat  and  the 
duster,  to  rub  their  shoes." 

Mrs.  Pullet's  front-door  mats  were  by  no  means  intended  tf' 
wipe  shoes  on :  the  very  scraper  had  a  deputy  to  do  its  dirty 
work.  Tom  rebelled  particularly  against  this  shoe-wiping, 
which  he  always  considered  m  the  light  of  an  indignity  to  his 
sex.  He  felt  it  as  the  beginning  of  the  disagreeables  incident 
to  a  visit  at  aunt  Pullet's,  where  he  had  once  been  compelled 
to  sit  with  towels  wrapped  round  his  boots ;  a  fact  which  may 
serve  to  correct  the  too  hasty  conclusion  that  a  visit  to  Garum 
Firs  must  have  been  a  great  treat  to  a  young  gentleman  fond 
of  animals  —  fond,  that  is,  of  throwing  stones  at  them. 

The  next  disagreeable  was  confined  to  his  feminine  com- 
panions :  it  was  the  mounting  of  the  polished  oak  stairs,  which 
had  very  handsome  carpets  rolled  up  and  laid  by  in  a  spare 
bedroom,  so  that  the  ascent  of  these  glossy  steps  might  have 
served,  in  barbarous  times,  as  a  trial  by  ordeal  from  which 
none  but  the  most  spotless  virtue  could  have  come  off  with  un- 
broken limbs.  Sophy's  weakness  about  these  polished  stairs 
was  always  a  subject  of  bitter  remonstrance  on  Mrs.  Glegg's 
part ;  but  Mrs.  Tulliver  ventured  on  no  comment,  only  think- 
ing to  herself  it  was  a  mercy  when  she  and  the  children  were 
safe  on  the  landing. 

"Mrs.  Gray  has  sent  home  my  new  bonnet,  Bessy,"  said 
Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  pathetic  tone,  as  Mrs.  Tulliver  adjusted 
her  cap. 

"  Has  she,  sister  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver.  with  an  air  of  much 
interest.     "  And  how  do  you  like  i*  r  -' 


94  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  It 's  apt  to  make  a  mess  with  clothes,  taking  'em  out  and 
putting  'em  in  again,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  drawing  a  bunch  of 
keys  from  her  pocket  and  looking  at  them  earnestly,  "  but  it 
'ud  be  a  pity  for  you  to  go  away  without  seeing  it.  There 's 
no  knowing  what  may  happen." 

Mrs.  Pullet  shook  her  head  slowly  at  this  last  serious  con- 
sideration, which  determined  her  to  single  out  a  particular 
key. 

"  I  'm  afraid  it  '11  be  troublesome  to  you  getting  it  out, 
sister,"  said  Mrs.  TuUiver,  "  but  I  should  like  to  see  what  sort 
of  a  crown  she 's  made  you." 

Mrs.  Pullet  rose  with  a  melancholy  air  and  unlocked  one 
wing  of  a  very  bright  wardrobe,  where  you  may  have  hastily 
supposed  she  would  find  the  new  bonnet.  Not  at  all.  Such  a 
supposition  could  only  have  arisen  from  a  too  superficial  ac- 
quaintance with  the  habits  of  the  Dodson  family.  In  this 
wardrobe  Mrs.  Pullet  was  seeking  something  small  enough  to 
be  hidden  among  layers  of  linen  —  it  was  a  door-key. 

"You  must  come  with  me  into  the  best  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet. 

"  May  the  children  come  too,  sister  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  TuUi- 
ver, who  saw  that  Maggie  and  Lucy  were  looking  rather 
eager. 

"  Well,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  reflectively,  "  it  '11  perhaps  be 
safer  for  'em  to  come  —  they  '11  be  touching  something  if  we 
leave  'em  behind." 

So  they  went  in  procession  along  the  bright  and  slippery 
corridor,  dimly  lighted  by  the  semi-lunar  top  of  the  window 
which  rose  above  the  closed  shutter  :  it  was  really  quite  sol- 
emn. Aunt  Pullet  paused  and  unlocked  a  door  which  opened 
on  something  still  more  solemn  than  the  passage  :  a  darkened 
room,  in  which  the  outer  light,  entering  feebly,  showed  what 
looked  like  the  corpses  of  furniture  in  white  shrouds.  Every- 
thing that  was  not  shrouded  stood  with  its  legs  upwards. 
Lucy  laid  hold  of  Maggie's  frock,  and  Maggie's  heart  beat 
rapidly. 

Aunt  Pullet  half-opened  the  shutter  and  then  unlocked  the 
wardrobe,  with  a  melancholy  deliberateness  which  was  quite 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  95 

in  keeping  with  the  funereal  solemnity  of  the  scene.  The 
delicious  scent  of  rose-leaves  that  issued  from  the  wardrobe, 
made  the  process  of  taking  out  sheet  after  sheet  of  silver  paper 
quite  pleasant  to  assist  at,  though  the  sight  of  the  bonnet  at 
last  was  an  anticlimax  to  Maggie,  who  would  have  preferred 
something  more  strikingly  preternatural.  But  few  things  could 
have  been  more  impressive  to  Mrs.  Tulliver.  She  looked  all 
round  it  in  silence  for  some  moments,  and  then  said  emphati- 
cally, "  Well,  sister,  I  '11  never  speak  against  the  full  crowns 
again !  " 

It  was  a  great  concession,  and  Mrs.  Pullet  felt  it :  she  felt 
something  was  due  to  it. 

"  You  'd  like  to  see  it  on,  sister  ?  "  she  said,  sadly.  "  I  '11 
open  the  shutter  a  bit  further." 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  mind  taking  off  your  cap,  sister,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver. 

Mrs.  Pullet  took  ofE  her  cap,  displaying  the  brown  silk 
scalp  with  a  jutting  promontory  of  curls  which  was  commoi, 
to  the  more  mature  and  judicious  women  of  those  times,  and, 
placing  the  bonnet  on  her  head,  turned  slowly  round,  like  a 
draper's  lay-figure,  thax  Mrs.  Tulliver  might  miss  no  point  of 
view. 

"  I  've  sometimes  thought  there  's  a  loop  too  much  o'  rib- 
bon on  this  left  side,  sister  ;  what  do  you  think  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Pullet. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  looked  earnestly  at  the  point  indicated,  and 
turned  her  head  on  one  side.  ''  Well,  I  think  it 's  best  as  it 
is ;  if  you  meddled  with  it,  sister,  you  might  repent." 

"  That 's  true,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  taking  off  the  bonnet  and 
looking  at  it  contemplatively. 

''  How  much  might  she  charge  you  for  that  bonnet,  sister  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  whose  mind  was  actively  engaged  on  the 
possibility  of  getting  a  humble  imitation  of  this  chef-d'oeuvre 
made  from  a  piece  of  silk  she  had  at  home. 

Mrs.  Pullet  screwed  up  her  mouth  and  shook  her  head,  and 
then  whispered,  "  Pullet  pays  for  it :  he  said  I  was  to  have 
the  best  bonnet  at  Garum  Church,  let  the  next  best  be  whose 
it  would." 


96  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

She  began  slowly  to  adjust  the  trimmings,  in  preparation 
for  returning  it  to  its  place  in  the  wardrobe,  and  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  melancholy  turn,  for  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  may  never  wear  it  twice,  sister ; 
who  knows  ?  " 

"Don't  talk  o'  that,  sister,"  answered  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "I 
hope  you  '11  have  your  health  this  summer." 

"Ah!  but  there  may  come  a  death  in  the  family,  as  there 
did  soon  after  I  had  my  green  satin  bonnet.  Cousin  Abbott 
may  go,  and  we  can't  think  o'  wearing  crape  less  nor  half  a 
year  for  him." 

"That  v;ould  be  unlucky,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  entering 
thoroughly  into  the  possibility  of  an  inopportune  decease. 
"  There  's  never  so  much  pleasure  i'  wearing  a  bonnet  the 
second  year,  especially  when  the  crowns  are  so  chancy  — 
never  two  summers  alike." 

"Ah,  it 's  the  way  i'  this  world,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  returning 
the  bonnet  to  the  wardrobe,  and  locking  it  up.  She  main- 
tained a  silence  characterized  by  head-shaking,  until  they  had 
all  issued  from  the  solemn  chamber  and  were  in  her  own  room 
again.  Then,  beginning  to  cry,  she  said,  "  Sister,  if  3'ou  should 
never  see  that  bonnet  again  till  I  'm  dead  and  gone,  you  '11  re- 
member I  showed  it  you  this  day." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  felt  that  she  ought  to  be  affected,  but  she  was 
a  woman  of  sparse  tears,  stout  and  healthy — she  couldn't 
cry  so  much  as  her  sister  Pullet  did,  and  had  often  felt  her 
deficiency  at  funerals.  Her  effort  to  bring  tears  into  her  eyes 
issued  in  an  odd  contraction  of  her  face.  Maggie,  looking  on 
attentively,  felt  that  there  was  some  painful  mystery  about 
her  aunt's  bonnet  which  she  was  considered  too  young  to  un- 
derstand :  indignantly  conscious,  all  the  while,  that  she  could 
have  understood  that,  as  well  as  everything  else,  if  she  had 
been  taken  into  confidence. 

When  they  went  down,  uncle  Pullet  observed  with  some 
acumen,  that  he  reckoned  the  missis  had  been  showing  her 
bonnet  —  that  was  what  had  made  them  so  long  up-stairs. 
With  Tom  the  interval  had  seemed  still  longer,  for  he  had 


BOY   AND  GIKL.  97 

been  seated  in  irksome  constraint  on  the  edge  of  a  sofa  directly 
opposite  his  uncle  Pullet,  who  regarded  him  with  twinkling 
gray  eyes,  and  occasionally  addressed  him  as  "  Young  sir." 

"Well,  young  sir,  what  do  you  learn  at  school?"  was  a 
standing  question  with  uncle  Pullet ;  whereupon  Tom  always 
looked  sheepish,  rubbed  his  hands  across  his  face  and  answered, 
"  I  don't  know."  It  was  altogether  so  embarrassing  to  be 
seated  tete-a-tete  with  uncle  Pullet,  that  I'om  could  not  even 
look  at  the  prints  on  the  walls,  or  the  fly  cages,  or  the  wonder- 
ful flower-pots  ;  he  saw  nothing  but  his  uncle's  gaiters.  Not 
that  Tom  was  in  awe  of  his  uncle's  mental  superiority  ;  indeed, 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  did  n't  want  to  be  a  gentle- 
man farmer,  because  he  should  n't  like  to  be  such  a  thin-legged 
silly  fellow  as  his  uncle  Pullet  —  a  molly-coddle,  in  fact.  A 
boy's  sheepishness  is  by  no  means  a  sign  of  overmastering  rev- 
erence ;  and  while  you  are  making  encouraging  advances  to 
him  under  the  idea  that  he  is  overwhelmed  by  a  sense  of  your 
age  and  wisdom,  ten  to  one  he  is  thinking  you  extremely 
queer.  The  only  consolation  I  can  suggest  to  you  is,  that  the 
Greek  boys  probably  thought  the  same  of  Aristotle.  It  is 
only  when  you  have  mastered  a  restive  horse,  or  thrashed  a 
drayman,  or  have  got  a  gun  in  your  hand,  that  these  shy  jun- 
iors feel  you  to  be  a  truly  admirable  and  enviable  character. 
At  least,  I  am  quite  sure  of  Tom  Tulliver's  sentiments  on 
these  points.  In  very  tender  years,  when  he  'jtill  wore  a  lace 
border  under  his  outdoor  cap,  he  was  often  observed  peeping 
through  the  bars  of  a  gate  and  making  minatory  gestures  with 
his  small  fore-finger  while  he  scolded  the  sheep  with  an  in- 
articulate burr,  intended  to  strike  terror  into  their  astonished 
minds  :  indicating  thus  early  that  desire  for  mastery  over  the 
inferior  animals,  wild  and  domestic,  including  cockchafers, 
neighbors'  dogs,  and  small  sisters,  which  in  all  ages  has  been 
an  attribute  of  so  much  promise  for  the  fortunes  of  our  race. 
Now  Mr.  Pullet  never  rode  anything  taller  than  a  low  pony, 
and  was  the  least  predatory  of  men,  considering  firearms  dan- 
gerous, as  apt  to  go  off  of  themselves  by  nobody's  particular 
desire.  So  that  Tom  was  not  without  strong  reasons  when,  in 
confidential  talk  with  a  chum,  he  had  described  uncle  Pullet 

VOL.    II.  7 


98  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

as  a  nincompoop,  taking  care  at  the  same  time  to  observe  that 
he  was  a  very  '•'  rich  fellow." 

The  only  alleviating  circumstance  in  a  tete-a-tete  with  uncle 
Pullet  was  that  he  kept  a  variety  of  lozenges  and  peppermint- 
drops  about  his  person,  and  when  at  a  loss  for  conversation, 
he  filled  up  the  void  by  proposing  a  mutual  solace  of  this 
kind. 

"  Do  you  like  peppermints,  young  sir  ? "  required  only  a 
tacit  answer  when  it  was  accompanied  by  a  presentation  of  the 
article  in  question. 

The  appearance  of  the  little  girls  suggested  to  uncle  Pullet 
the  further  solace  of  small  sweet-cakes,  of  which  he  also  kept 
a  stock  under  lock  and  key  for  his  own  private  eating  on  wet 
days ;  but  the  three  children  had  no  sooner  got  the  tempting 
delicacy  between  their  fingers,  than  aunt  Pullet  desired  them 
to  abstain  from  eating  it  till  the  tray  and  the  plates  came,  since 
with  those  crisp  cakes  they  would  make  the  floor  "  all  over  " 
crumbs.  Lucy  didn't  mind  that  much,  for  the  cake  was  so 
pretty,  she  thought  it  was  rather  a  pity  to  eat  it ;  but  Tom, 
watching  his  opportunity  while  the  elders  were  talking,  hastily 
stowed  it  in  his  mouth  at  two  bites,  and  chewed  it  furtively. 
As  for  Maggie,  becoming  fascinated,  as  usual,  by  a  print  of 
Ulysses  and  Nausicaa,  which  uncle  Pullet  had  bought  as  a 
"pretty  Scripture  thing,"  she  presently  let  fall  her  cake,  and 
in  an  unlucky  movement  crushed  it  beneath  her  foot  —  a  source 
of  so  much  agitation  to  aunt  Pullet  and  conscious  disgrace  to 
Maggie,  that  she  began  to  despair  of  hearing  the  musical  snuff- 
box to-day,  till,  after  some  reflection,  it  occurred  to  her  that 
Lucy  was  in  high  favor  enough  to  venture  on  asking  for  a  tune. 
So  she  whispered  to  Lucy,  and  Lucy,  who  always  did  what  she 
was  desired  to  do,  went  up  quietly  to  her  uncle's  knee,  and, 
blushing  all  over  her  neck  while  she  fingered  her  necklace,  said, 
"  Will  you  please  play  us  a  tune,  uncle  ?  " 

liucy  thought  it  was  by  reason  of  some  exceptional  talent  in 
uncle  Pullet  that  the  snuff-box  played  such  beautiful  tunes, 
and  indeed  the  thing  was  viewed  in  that  light  by  the  majority 
of  his  neighbors  in  Garum.  Mr.  Pullet  had  bought  the  box,  to 
begin  with,  and  he  understood  winding  it  up,  and  knew  which 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  99 

tune  it  was  going  to  play  beforehand ;  altogether,  the  posses- 
sion of  this  unique  "piece  of  music"  was  a  proof  that  Mr. 
Pullet's  character  was  not  of  that  entire  nullity  which  might 
otherwise  have  been  attributed  to  it.  But  uncle  Pullet,  when 
entreated  to  exhibit  his  accomplishment,  never  depreciated  it 
by  a  too  ready  consent.  "We  '11  see  about  it,"  was  the  answer 
he  always  gave,  carefully  abstaining  from  any  sign  of  com- 
pliance till  a  suitable  number  of  minutes  had  passed.  Uncle 
Pullet  had  a  programme  for  all  great  social  occasions,  and  in 
this  way  fenced  himself  in  from  much  painful  confusion  and 
perplexing  freedom  of  will. 

Perhaps  the  suspense  did  heighten  Maggie's  enjoyment 
when  the  fairy  tune  began :  for  the  first  time  she  quite  forgot 
that  she  had  a  load  on  her  mind  —  that  Tom  was  angry  with 
her ;  and  by  the  time  "  Hush,  ye  pretty  warbling  choir,"  had 
been  played,  her  face  wore  that  bright  look  of  happiness,  while 
she  sat  immovable  with  her  hands  clasped,  which  sometimes 
comforted  her  mother  with  the  sense  tliat  Maggie  could  look 
pretty  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  her  brown  skin,  Biit  when 
the  magic  music  ceased,  she  jumped  up,  and,  running  towards 
Tom,  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  said,  "  Oh,  Tom,  is  n't  it 
pretty  ?  " 

Lest  you  shoiild  think  it  showed  a  revolting  insensibility 
in  Tom  that  he  felt  any  new  anger  towards  Maggie  for  this 
uncalled-for,  and,  to  him,  inexplicable  caress,  I  must  tell  you 
that  he  had  his  glass  of  cowslip  wine  in  his  hand,  and  that  she 
jerked  him  so  as  to  make  him  spill  half  of  it.  He  must  have 
been  an  extreme  milksop  not  to  say  angrily,  "Look  there 
now ! "  especially  when  his  resentment  was  sanctioned,  as  it 
was,  by  general  disapprobation  of  Maggie's  behavior. 

"  Why  don't  you  sit  still,  Maggie  ? "  her  mother  said, 
peevishly. 

"  Little  gells  must  n't  come  to  see  me  if  they  behave  in  that 
way,"  said  aunt  Pullet. 

"  Why,  you  're  too  rough,  little  miss,"  said  uncle  Pullet. 

Poor  Maggie  sat  down  again,  with  the  music  all  chased  out 
of  her  soul,  and  the  seven  small  demons  all  in  again. 

Mrs.  Tulliver,  foreseeing  nothing  but  misbehavior  while  the 


100  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLO&S. 

children  remained  indoors,  took  an  early  opportunity  of  sug- 
gesting that,  now  they  were  rested  after  their  walk,  they 
might  go  and  play  out  of  doors ;  and  aunt  Pullet  gave  permis- 
sion, only  enjoining  them  not  to  go  oft"  the  paved  walks  in  the 
garden,  and  if  they  wanted  to  see  the  poultry  fed,  to  view 
them  from  a  distance  on  the  horse-block  ,  a  restriction  which 
had  been  imposed  ever  since  Tom  had  been  found  guilty  of 
running  after  the  peacock,  with  an  illusory  idea  that  fright 
would  make  one  of  its  feathers  drop  off. 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  thoughts  had  been  temporarily  diverted  from 
the  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Glegg  by  millinery  and  maternal  cares, 
but  now  the  great  theme  of  the  bonnet  was  thrown  into  per- 
spective, and  the  children  were  out  of  the  way,  yesterday's 
anxieties  recurred. 

"It  weighs  on  my  mind  so  as  never  was,"  she  said,  by  way 
of  opening  the  subject,  "sister  Glegg's  leaving  the  house  in 
that  way.     I  'm  sure  I  'd  no  wish  t'  oft'end  a  sister." 

"Ah,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  "there's  no  accounting  for  what 
Jane  'uU  do.  I  would  n't  speak  of  it  out  o'  the  family  —  if  it 
was  n't  to  Dr.  Turnbull ;  but  it 's  ray  belief  Jane  lives  too  low. 
I  've  said  so  to  Pullet  often  and  often,  and  he  knows  it." 

"Why,  you  said  so  last  Monday  was  a  week,  when  we  came 
away  from  drinking  tea  with  'em,"  said  Mr.  Pullet,  beginning 
to  nurse  his  knee  and  shelter  it  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  as 
was  his  way  when  the  conversation  took  an  interesting  turn. 

"  Very  like  I  did,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "  for  j^ou  remember 
when  I  said  things,  better  than  I  can  remember  myself.  He 's 
got  a  wonderful  memory,  Pullet  has,"  she  continued,  looking 
pathetically  at  her  sister.  "  I  should  be  poorly  off  if  he  was  to 
have  a  stroke,  for  he  always  remembers  when  I  've  got  to  take 
my  doctor's  stuff  —  and  I  'm  taking  three  sorts  now." 

"  There  's  the  '  pills  as  before '  every  other  night,  and  the 
new  drops  at  eleven  and  four,  and  the  'fervescing  mixture 
'  when  agreeable,' "  rehearsed  Mr.  Pullet,  with  a  punctuation 
determined  by  a  lozenge  on  his  tongue. 

"  Ah,  perhaps  it  'ud  be  better  for  sister  Glegg  if  she  'd  go 
to  the  doctor  sometimes,  instead  o'  chewing  Turkey  rhubarb 
whenever  there  's  anything  the  matter  with  her,"  said  Mrs. 


BOY  AND   GIRL,  101 

Tulliver,   who   naturally  saw   the  wide   subject   of   medicine 
chiefly  iu  relation  to  Mrs.  Glegg. 

"  It 's  dreadful  to  think  on,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  raising  her 
hands  and  letting  them  fall  again,  "people  playing  with 
their  own  insides  in  that  way  I  And  it 's  flymg  i'  the  face  o' 
Providence ;  for  what  are  the  doctors  for,  if  we  are  n't  to  call 
'em  in?  And  when  folks  have  got  the  money  to  pay  for  a 
doctor,  it  isn't  respectable,  as  I've  told  Jane  many  a  time. 
T  'm  ashamed  of  acquaintance  knowing  it." 

"  Well,  we  've  no  call  to  be  ashamed,"'  said  Mr.  Pullet,  ''  for 
Doctor  Turnbull  has  n't  got  such  another  patient  as  you  i'  this 
parish,  now  old  Mrs.  Sutton  's  gone." 

"  Pullet  keeps  all  my  physic-bottles  —  did  you  know, 
Bessy?"  said  Mrs.  Pullet.  "He  won't  have  one  sold.  He 
says  it's  nothing  but  right  folks  should  see  'em  when  I'm 
gone.  They  fill  two  o'  the  long  store-room  shelves  a'ready  — 
but,"  she  added,  beginning  to  cry  a  little,  "  it 's  well  if  they 
ever  fill  three.  I  may  go  before  I  've  made  up  the  dozen  o' 
these  last  sizes.  The  pill-boxes  are  in  the  closet  in  my  room 
—  you  '11  remember  that,  sister  —  but  there  's  nothing  to  show 
for  the  boluses,  if  it  is  n't  the  bills." 

"  Don't  talk  o'  your  going,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver ;  "  I 
should  have  nobody  to  stand  between  me  and  sister  Glegg  if 
you  was  gone.  And  there  's  nobody  but  you  can  get  her  to 
make  it  up  with  Mr.  Tulliver,  for  sister  Deane  's  never  o'  my 
side,  and  if  she  was,  it 's  not  to  be  looked  for  as  she  can  speak 
like  them  as  have  got  an  independent  fortin." 

"Well,  your  husband  is  awk'ard,  j^ou  know,  Bessy,"  said 
Mrs.  Pullet,  good-naturedly  ready  to  use  her  deep  depression 
on  her  sister's  account  as  well  as  her  own.  "  He  's  never  be- 
haved quite  so  pretty  to  our  family  as  he  should  do,  and  the 
children  take  after  him  —  the  boy 's  very  mischievous,  and 
runs  away  from  his  aunts  and  uncles,  and  the  gell  's  rude  and 
brown.  It 's  your  bad-luck,  and  I  'm  sorry  for  you,  Bessy  ;  for 
you  was  allays  my  fa.vorite  sister,  and  we  allays  liked  the 
same  patterns." 

"  I  know  Tulliver 's  hasty,  and  says  odd  things,"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  wiping  away  one  small  tear  from  the  corner  of  hei 


102  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

eye,  "  but  I  'm  sure  he 's  never  been  the  man,  since  he  married 
me,  to  object  to  my  making  the  friends  o'  my  side  o'  the 
family  welcome  to  the  house." 

"/don't  want  to  make  the  worst  of  you,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  compassionately,  "  for  I  doubt  you  '11  have  trouble 
enough  without  that ;  and  your  husband  's  got  that  poor  sister 
and  her  children  hanging  on  him,  —  and  so  given  to  lawing, 
they  say.  I  doubt  he  '11  leave  you  poorly  off  when  he  dies. 
Not  as  I'd  have  it  said  out  o'  the  family." 

This  view  of  her  position  was  naturally  far  from  cheering  to 
Mrs.  Tulliver.  Her  imagination  was  not  easily  acted  on,  but 
she  could  not  help  thinking  that  her  case  was  a  hard  one,  since 
it  appeared  that  other  people  thought  it  hard. 

"  I  'm  sure,  sister,  I  can't  help  myself,"  she  said,  urged  by 
the  fear  lest  her  anticipated  misfortunes  might  be  held  retribu- 
tive, to  take  a  comprehensive  review  of  her  past  conduct. 
"  There 's  no  woman  strives  more  for  her  children ;  and  I  'm 
sure,  at  scouring-time  this  Lady  Day  as  I've  had  all  the  bed- 
hangings  taken  down,  I  did  as  much  as  the  two  gells  put  to- 
gether ;  and  there  's  this  last  elder-flower  wine  I  've  made  — 
beautiful !  I  allays  offer  it  along  with  the  sherry,  though 
sister  Glegg  will  have  it  I  'm  so  extravagant ;  and  as  for  lik- 
ing to  have  my  clothes  tidy,  and  not  go  a  fright  about  the 
house,  there  's  nobody  in  the  parish  can  say  anything  against 
me  in  respect  o'  backbiting  and  making  mischief,  for  I  don't 
wish  anybody  any  harm ;  and  nobody  loses  by  sending  me  a 
pork-pie,  for  my  pies  are  fit  to  show  with  the  best  o'  my  neigh- 
bors' ;  and  the  linen 's  so  in  order,  as  if  I  was  to  die  to-morrow 
I  should  n't  be  ashamed.  A  woman  can  do  no  more  nor  she 
can." 

"  But  it 's  all  o'  no  use,  you  know,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet, 
holding  her  head  on  one  side,  and  fixing  her  eyes  pathetically 
on  her  sister,  "  if  your  husband  makes  away  with  his  money. 
Not  but  what  if  you  was  sold  up,  and  other  folks  bought  your 
furniture,  it 's  a  comfort  to  think  as  you  've  kept  it  well 
rubbed.  And  there  's  the  linen,  with  your  maiden  mark  on, 
might  go  all  over  the  country.  It  'ud  be  a  sad  pity  for  our 
family  "     Mrs.  Pullet  shook  her  head  slowly. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  103 

''But  what  can  I  do,  sister  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "  Mr.  Tul. 
liver  's  not  a  man  to  be  dictated  to  —  not  if  I  was  to  go  to  the 
parson,  and  get  by  heart  what  I  should  tell  my  husband  for 
the  best.  And  1  'm  sure  I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything 
about  putting  out  money  and  all  that.  I  could  never  see  into 
men's  business  as  sister  Glegg  does." 

"  Well,  you  "re  like  me  in  that,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet ; 
"and  I  think  it  "ud  be  a  deal  more  becoming  o'  Jane  if  she  'd 
have  that  pier-glass  rubbed  oftener  —  there  was  ever  so  many 
spots  on  it  last  week  —  instead  o'  dictating  to  folks  as  have 
more  comings  in  than  she  ever  had,  and  telling  'em  what 
they've  to  do  with  their  money.  But  Jane  and  me  were 
allays  eontrairy ;  she  would  have  striped  things,  and  I  like 
spots.  You  like  a  spot  too,  Bessy :  we  allays  hung  together 
i'  that." 

"  Yes,  Sophy,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  ''  I  remember  our  having 
a  blue  ground  with  a  white  spot  both  alike  —  I  've  got  a  bit  in 
a  bed-quilt  now ;  and  if  you  would  but  go  and  see  sister  Glegg, 
and  persuade  her  to  make  it  up  with  Tulliver,  I  should  take  it 
very  kind  of  you.     You  was  allays  a  good  sister  to  me." 

"  But  the  right  thing  'ud  be  for  Tulliver  to  go  and  make  it 
up  with  her  himself,  and  say  he  was  sorry  for  speaking  so 
rash.  If  he 's  borrowed  money  of  her,  he  should  n't  be  above 
that/'  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  whose  partiality  did  not  blind  her  to 
principles  :  she  did  not  forget  what  was  due  to  people  of 
independent  fortune. 

''  It 's  no  use  talking  o'  that,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  al- 
most peevishly.  "  If  I  was  to  go  down  on  my  bare  knees  on 
the  gravel  to  Tulliver,  he  'd  never  humble  himself." 

"  Well,  you  can't  expect  me  to  persuade  Jane  to  beg  par- 
don,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet.  "  Her  temper 's  beyond  everything ; 
it 's  well  if  it  does  n't  carry  her  off  her  mind,  though  there 
never  was  any  of  our  family  went  to  a  madhouse." 

"  I  'm  not  thinking  of  her  begging  pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver. ",But  if  she  'd  just  take  no  notice,  and  not  call  her 
money  in ;  as  it 's  not  so  much  for  one  sister  to  ask  of  an- 
other ;  time  'ud  mend  things,  and  Tulliver  'ud  forget  all  about 
it,  and  they  'd  be  friends  again." 


104  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

Mrs.  Tulliver,  you  perceive,  was  not  aware  of  her  husband's 
irrevocable  determination  to  pay  in  the  five  hundred  pounds ; 
at  least  such  a  determination  exceeded  her  powers  of  belief. 

"  Well,  Bessy/'  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  mournfull}^,  "  /  don't  want 
to  help  you  on  to  ruin.  I  won't  be  behindliand  i'  doing  you  a 
good  turn,  if  it  is  to  be  done.  And  I  don't  like  it  said  among 
acquaintance  as  we  've  got  quarrels  in  the  family,  I  shall  tell 
Jane  that ;  and  I  don't  mind  driving  to  Jane's  to-morrow,  if 
Pullet  does  n't  mind.     What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Pullet  ?  " 

"I've  no  objections,"  said  Mr.  Pullet,  who  was  perfectly 
contented  with  any  course  the  quarrel  might  take,  so  that  Mr. 
Tulliver  did  not  apply  to  hbn  for  money.  Mr.  Pullet  was  ner- 
vous about  his  investments,  and  did  not  see  how  a  man  could 
have  any  security  for  his  money  unless  he  turned  it  into  land. 

After  a  little  further  discussion  as  to  whether  it  would  not 
be  better  for  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  accompany  them  on  a  visit  to 
sister  Glegg,  Mrs.  Pullet,  observing  that  it  was  tea-time, 
turned  to  reach  from  a  drawer  a  delicate  damask  napkin, 
which  she  pinned  before  her  in  the  fashion  of  an  apron.  The 
door  did,  in  fact,  soon  open,  but  instead  of  the  tea-tray,  Sally 
introduced  an  object  so  startling  that  both  Mrs.  Pullet  and 
Mrs.  Tulliver  gave  a  scream,  causing  uncle  Pullet  to  swallow 
his  lozenge  —  for  the  fifth  time  in  his  life,  as  he  afterwards 
noted. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MAGGIE   BEHAVES    WORSE   THAN    SHE   EXPECTED. 

The  startling  object  which  thus  made  an  epoch  for  uncle 
Pullet  was  no  other  than  little  Lucy,  with  one  side  of  her 
person,  from  her  small  foot  to  her  bonnet-crown,  wet  and  dis- 
colored with  mud,  holding  out  two  tiny  blackened  hands,  and 
making  a  very  piteous  face.  To  account  for  this  unprecedented 
apparition  in  aunt  Pullet's  parlor,  we  must  return  to  the 
moment  when  the  three  (children  went  to  play  out  of  doors, 
and  the  small  demons  who  had  taken  possession  of  Maggie'a 


JU 


BOY  AND  GIKL.  105 

soul  at  an  early  period  of  the  da}'  had  returned  in  all  the 
greater  force  after  a  temporary  absence.  All  the  disagreeable 
recollections  of  the  morning  were  thick  upon  her,  when  Tom, 
whose  displeasure  towards  her  had  been  considerably  re- 
freshed by  her  foolish  trick  of  causing  him  to  upset  his  cow- 
elip  wine,  said,  "Here,  Lucy,  you  come  along  with  me,"  and 
walked  off  to  the  area  where  the  toads  were,  as  if  there  were 
no  Maggie  in  existence.  Seeing  this,  Maggie  lingered  at  a  dis- 
tance, looking  like  a  small  Medusa  with  her  snakes  cropped. 
Lucy  was  naturally  pleased  that  cousin  Tom  was  so  good  to 
her,  and  it  was  very  amusing  to  see  him  tickling  a  fat  toad 
with  a  piece  of  string  when  the  toad  was  safe  down  the  area, 
with  an  iron  grating  over  him.  Still  Lucy  wished  Maggie 
to  enjoy  the  spectacle  also,  especially  as  she  would  doubtless 
find  a  name  for  the  toad,  and  say  what  had  been  his  past 
history;  for  Lucy  had  a  delighted  semi-belief  in  Maggie's 
stories  about  the  live  things  they  came  upon  by  accident  — 
how  Mrs.  Earwig  had  a  wash  at  home,  and  one  of  her  chil- 
dren had  fallen  into  the  hot  copper,  for  which  reason  she 
was  running  so  fast  to  fetch  the  doctor.  Tom  had  a  profound 
contempt  for  this  nonsense  of  Maggie's,  smashing  the  earwig 
at  once  as  a  superfluous  yet  easy  means  of  proving  the  entire 
unreality  of  such  a  story ;  but  Lucy,  for  the  life  of  her,  could 
not  help  fancying  there  was  something  in  it,  and  at  all  events 
thought  it  was  very  pretty  make-believe.  So  now  the  de- 
sire to  know  the  history  of  a  very  portly  toad,  added  to  her 
habitual  affectionateness,  made  her  run  back  to  Maggie  and 
say,  "  Oh,  there  is  such  a  big,  funny  toad,  Maggie  !  Do  come 
and  see." 

Maggie  said  nothing,  but  turned  away  from  her  with  a 
deeper  frown.  As  long  as  Tom  seemed  to  prefer  Lucy  to  her, 
Lucy  made  part  of  his  unkindness.  Maggie  would  have 
thought  a  little  while  ago  that  she  could  never  be  cross  with 
pretty  little  Lucy,  any  more  than  she  could  be  cruel  to  a  little 
white  mouse ;  but  then,  Tom  had  always  been  quite  indifferent 
to  Lucy  before,  and  it  had  been  left  to  Maggie  to  pet  and 
make  much  of  her.  As  it  was,  she  was  actually  beginning  to 
think  that  she  should  like  to  make  Lucy  cry,  by  slapping  oi 


106  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

pinching  lier,  especially  as  it  might  vex  Tom,  whom  it  was  of 
no  use  to  slap,  even  if  she  dared,  because  he  did  n't  mind  it. 
And  if  Lucy  had  n't  been  there,  Maggie  was  sure  he  would 
have  got  friends  with  her  sooner. 

Tickling  a  fat  toad  who  is  not  highly  sensitive,  is  an  amuse- 
ment that  it  is  possible  to  exhaust,  and  Tom  by-and-by  began 
to  look  round  for  some  other  mode  of  passing  the  time.  But 
in  so  prim  a  garden,  where  they  were  not  to  go  off  the  paved 
walks,  there  was  not  a  great  choice  of  sport.  The  only  great 
pleasure  such  a  restriction  suggested  was  the  pleasure  of 
breaking  it,  and  Tom  began  to  meditate  an  insurrectionary 
visit  to  the  pond,  about  a  iield's  length  beyond  the  garden. 

"  I  say,  Lucy,"  he  began,  nodding  his  head  up  and  down 
with  great  significance,  as  he  coiled  up  his  string  again,  ^'  what 
do  you  think  I  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"  What,  Tom  ?  "  said  Lucy,  with  curiosity. 

"  I  mean  to  go  to  the  pond,  and  look  at  the  pike.  You  may 
go  with  me  if  you  like,"  said  the  young  sultan. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  dare  you  ?  "  said  Lucy.  "  Aunt  said  we  must  n't 
go  out  of  the  garden." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  go  out  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden,"  said 
Tom.  "  Nobody  'uU  see  us.  Besides,  I  don't  care  if  they  do 
—  I  '11  run  off  home." 

"  But  I  could  n't  run,"  said  Lucy,  who  had  never  before 
been  exposed  to  such  severe  temptation. 

"Oh,  never  mind  —  they  won't  be  cross  with  2/om,"  said 
Tom.     "  You  say  I  took  you." 

Tom  walked  along,  and  Lucy  trotted  by  his  side,  timidly  en- 
joying the  rare  treat  of  doing  something  naughty  —  excited 
also  by  the  mention  of  that  celebrity,  the  pike,  about  which 
she  was  quite  uncertain  whether  it  was  a  fish  or  a  foAvl.  Mag- 
gie saw  them  leaving  the  garden,  and  could  not  resist  the  im- 
pulse to  follow.  Anger  and  jealousy  can  no  more  bear  to  lose 
sight  of  their  objects  than  love,  and  that  Tom  and  Lucy  should 
do  or  see  anything  of  which  she  Avas  ignorant  would  have  been 
an  intolerable  idea  to  Maggie.  So  she  kept  a  few  yards  behind 
them,  unobserved  by  Tom,  who  was  presently  absorbed  in 
watching  for  the  pike  —  a  highly  interesting  monster ;  he  was 


BOY   AND   GIKL.  107 

said  to  be  so  very  old,  so  very  large,  and  to  have  such  a  remark- 
able appetite.  The  pike,  like  other  celebrities,  did  not  show- 
when  he  was  watched  for,  but  Tom  caught  sight  of  something 
in  rapid  movement  in  the  water,  which  attracted  him  to  an- 
other spot  on  the  brink  of  the  pond. 

"  Here,  Lucy  !  "  he  said  in  a  loud  whisper,  '^  come  here  !  take 
care  !  keep  on  the  grass  —  don't  step  where  the  cows  have 
been  ! "  he  added,  pointing  to  a  peninsula  of  dry  grass,  with 
trodden  mud  on  each  side  of  it ;  for  Tom's  contemptuous  con- 
ception of  a  girl  included  the  attribute  of  being  unfit  to  walk 
in  dirty  places. 

Lucy  came  carefully  as  she  was  bidden,  and  bent  down  to 
look  at  what  seemed  a  golden  arrow-head  darting  through  the 
water.  It  was  a  water-snake,  Tom  told  her,  and  Lucy  at  last 
could  see  the  serpentine  wave  of  its  body,  very  much  wonder- 
ing that  a  snake  could  swim.  Maggie  had  drawn  nearer  and 
nearer  —  she  must  see  it  too,  though  it  was  bitter  to  her  like 
everything  else,  since  Tom  did  not  care  about  her  seeing  it. 
At  last,  she  was  close  by  Lucy,  and  Tom,  who  had  been  aware 
of  her  approach,  but  would  not  notice  it  till  he  was  obliged, 
turned  round  and  said  — 

"  Now,  get  away,  Maggie ;  there  's  no  room  for  you  on  the 
grass  here.     Nobody  asked  you  to  come." 

There  were  passions  at  war  in  Maggie  at  that  moment  to 
have  made  a  tragedy,  if  tragedies  were  made  by  passion  only ; 
but  the  essential  tl  yueye^os  which  was  present  in  the  passion 
was  wanting  to  the  action :  the  utmost  Maggie  could  do,  with 
a  fierce  thrust  of  her  small  brown  arm,  was  to  push  poor  little 
pi nk-and- white  Lucy  into  the  cow-trodden  mud. 

Then  Tom  could  not  restrain  himself,  and  gave  Maggie  two 
smart  slaps  on  the  arm  as  he  ran  to  pick  up  Lucy,  who  lay 
crying  helplessly.  Maggie  retreated  to  the  roots  of  a  tree  a 
few  yards  off,  and  looked  on  impeniteutly.  Usually  her  re- 
pentance came  quickly  after  one  rash  deed,  but  now  Tom  and 
Lucy  had  made  her  so  miserable,  she  was  glad  to  spoil  theif 
happiness  —  glad  to  make  everybody  uncomfortabla  Why 
should  she  be  sorry  ?  Tom  was  very  slow  to  forgive  her,  how- 
ever sorry  she  might  have  been. 


108  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  I  shall  tell  mother,  you  know,  Miss  Mag,"  said  Tom,  loudl;^ 
and  emphatically,  as  soon  as  Lucy  was  up  and  ready  to  walk 
away.  It  was  not  Tom's  practice  to  "  tell,"  but  here  justice 
clearly  demanded  that  Maggie  should  be  visited  with  the  ut- 
most punishment :  not  that  Tom  had  learnt  to  put  his  views 
in  that  abstract  form  ;  he  never  mentioned  "justice,"  and  had 
no  idea  that  his  desire  to  punish  might  be  called  by  that  fine 
name.  Lucy  was  too  entirely  absorbed  by  the  evil  that  had 
befallen  her  —  the  spoiling  of  her  pretty  best  clothes,  and  the 
discomfort  of  being  wet  and  dirty  —  to  think  much  of  the 
cause,  which  was  entirely  mysterious  to  her.  She  could  never 
have  guessed  what  she  had  done  to  make  Maggie  angry  with 
her ;  but  she  felt  that  Maggie  was  very  unkind  and  disagree- 
able, and  made  no  magnanimous  entreaties  to  Tom  that  he 
would  not  "tell,"  only  running  along  by  his  side  and  crying 
piteously,  while  Maggie  sat  on  the  roots  of  the  tree  and  looked 
after  them  with  her  small  Medusa  face. 

"  Sally,"  said  Tom,  when  they  reached  the  kitchen  door,  and 
Sally  looked  at  them  in  speechless  amaze,  with  a  piece  of  bread- 
and-butter  in  her  mouth  and  a  toasting-fork  in  her  hand  — 
"  Sally,  tell  mother  it  was  Maggie  pushed  Lucy  into  the  mud." 

"  But  Lors  ha'  massy,  how  did  you  get  near  such  mud  as 
that  ?  "  said  Sally,  making  a  wry  face,  as  she  stooped  down 
and  examined  the  corpus  delicti. 

Tom's  imagination  had  not  been  rapid  and  capacious  enough 
to  include  this  question  among  the  foreseen  consequences,  but 
it  was  no  sooner  put  than  he  foresaw  whither  it  tended,  and 
that  Maggie  would  not  be  considered  the  only  culprit  in  the 
case.  He  walked  quietly  away  from  the  kitchen  door,  leaving 
Sally  to  that  pleasure  of  guessing  which  active  minds  noto- 
riously prefer  to  ready-made  knowledge. 

Sally,  as  you  are  aware,  lost  no  time  in  presenting  Lucy  at 
the  parlor  door,  for  to  have  so  dirty  an  object  introduced  into 
the  house  at  Garum  Firs  was  too  great  a  weight  to  be  sustained 
by  a  single  mind. 

"  Goodness  gracious  !  "  aunt  Pullet  exclaimed,  after  prelud- 
ing by  an  inarticulate  scream ;  "  keep  her  at  the  door,  Sally  I 
Don't  bring  her  off  the  oil-cloth,  whatever  you  do." 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  109 

"Why,  she's  tumbled  into  some  nasty  mud,"  said  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver,  going  up  to  Lucy  to  examine  into  the  amount  of  damage 
to  clothes  for  which  she  felt  herself  responsible  to  her  sister 
Deane. 

"  If  you  please,  'um,  it  was  Miss  Maggie  as  pushed  her  in/' 
said  Sally ;  "  Master  Tom  's  been  and  said  so,  and  they  must 
ha'  been  to  the  pond,  for  it 's  only  there  they  could  ha'  got  into 
such  dirt." 

"  There  it  is,  Bessy  ;  it 's  what  I  've  been  telling  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  tone  of  prophetic  sadness :  "  it 's  your  chil- 
dren —  there 's  no  knowing  what  they  '11  come  to." 

Mrs.  TuUiver  was  mute,  feeling  herself  a  truly  wretched 
mother.  As  usual,  the  thought  pressed  upon  her  that  people 
would  think  she  had  done  something  wicked  to  deserve  her 
maternal  troubles,  while  Mrs.  Pullet  began  to  give  elaborate 
directions  to  Sally  how  to  guard  the  premises  from  serious  in- 
jury in  the  course  of  removing  the  dirt.  Meantime  tea  was  to 
be  brought  in  by  the  cook,  and  the  two  naughty  children  were 
to  have  theirs  in  an  ignominious  manner  in  the  kitchen.  Mrs. 
Tulliver  went  out  to  speak  to  these  naughty  children,  suppos- 
ing them  to  be  close  at  hand ;  but  it  was  not  until  after  some 
search  that  she  found  Tom  leaning  with  rather  a  hardened 
careless  air  against  the  white  paling  of  the  poultry-yard,  and 
lowering  his  piece  of  string  on  the  other  side  as  a  means  of 
exasperating  the  turkey-cock. 

"  Tom,  you  naughty  boy,  where 's  your  sister  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  in  a  distressed  voice. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom  ;  his  eagerness  for  justice  on 
Maggie  had  diminished  since  he  had  seen  clearly  that  it  could 
hardly  be  brought  about  without  the  injustice  of  some  blame 
on  his  own  conduct. 

"  Why,  where  did  you  leave  her  ?  "  said  his  mother,  looking 
round. 

"Sitting  under  the  tree,  against  the  pond,"  said  Tom,  appar- 
ently indifferent  to  everything  but  the  string  and  the  turkey- 
cock. 

"  Then  go  and  fetch  her  in  this  minute,  you  naughty  boy. 
And  how  could  you  think  o'  going  to  the  pond,  and  taking 


110  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

your  sister  where  there  was  dirt  ?  You  know  she  '11  do  mia- 
chief,  if  there 's  mischief  to  be  done." 

It  was  Mrs.  Tulliver's  way,  if  she  blamed  Tom,  to  refer  his 
misdemeanor,  somehow  or  other,  to  Maggie. 

The  idea  of  Maggie  sitting  alone  by  the  pond,  roused  an 
habitual  fear  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  mind,  and  she  mounted  the 
horse-block  to  satisfy  herself  by  a  sight  of  that  fatal  child, 
while  Tom  walked  —  not  very  quickly  —  on  his  way  towards 
her. 

"  They  're  such  children  for  the  water,  mine  are,"  she  said 
aloud,  without  reflecting  that  there  was  no  one  to  hear  her ; 
"  they  '11  be  brought  in  dead  and  drownded  some  day.  I  wish 
that  river  was  far  enough." 

But  when  she  not  only  failed  to  discern  Maggie,  but  pres- 
ently saw  Tom  returning  from  the  pool  alone,  this  hovering 
fear  entered  and  took  complete  possession  of  her,  and  she  hur- 
ried to  meet  him. 

"  Maggie  's  nowhere  about  the  pond,  mother,"  said  Tom ; 
"  she 's  gone  away." 

You  may  conceive  the  terrified  search  for  Maggie,  and  the 
difficulty  of  convincing  her  mother  that  she  was  not  in  the 
pond.  Mrs.  Pullet  observed  that  the  child  might  come  to  a 
worse  end  if  she  lived  —  there  was  no  knowing ;  and  Mr.  Pul- 
let, confused  and  overwhelmed  by  this  revolutionary  aspect 
of  things  —  the  tea  deferred  and  the  poultry  alarmed  by  the 
unusual  running  to  and  fro  —  took  up  his  spud  as  an  instru- 
ment of  search,  and  reached  down  a  key  to  unlock  the  goose- 
pen,  as  a  likely  place  for  Maggie  to  lie  concealed  in. 

Tom,  after  a  while,  started  the  idea  that  Maggie  was  gone 
home  (without  thinking  it  necessary  to  state  that  it  was  what 
he  should  have  done  himself  under  the  circumstances),  and  the 
suggestion  was  seized  as  a  comfort  by  his  mother. 

"  Sister,  for  goodness'  sake  let  'em  put  the  horse  in  the  car- 
riage and  take  me  home  —  we  shall  perhaps  find  her  on  the 
road.  Lucy  can't  walk  in  her  dirty  clothes,"  she  said,  looking 
at  that  innocent  victim,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  and 
sitting  with  naked  feet  on  the  sofa. 

Aunt  Puilet  was  quite  wiliiug  to  take  the  shortest  means  oi 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  Ill 

restoring  her  premises  to  order  and  quiet,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  in  the  chaise  looking  anxiously  at  the 
most  distant  point  before  her.  What  the  father  would  say  if 
Maggie  was  lost  ?  was  a  question  that  predominated  over  every 
other. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MAGGIE   TRIES   TO    RUN    AWAY   FROM    HER   SHADOW. 

Maggie's  intentions,  as  usual,  were  on  a  larger  scale  than 
Tom  had  imagined.  The  resolution  that  gathered  in  her  mind, 
after  Tom  and  Lucy  had  walked  away,  was  not  so  simple  as 
that  of  going  home.  No !  she  would  run  away  and  go  to  the 
gypsies,  and  Tom  should  never  see  her  any  more.  That  was 
by  no  means  a  new  idea  to  Maggie  ;  she  had  been  so  often  told 
she  was  like  a  gypsy,  and  "  half  wild,"  that  when  she  was  mis- 
erable it  seemed  to  her  the  only  way  of  escaping  opprobrium, 
and  being  entirely  in  harmony  with  circumstances  would  be  to 
live  in  a  little  brown  tent  on  the  commons  :  the  gypsies,  she 
considered,  would  gladly  receive  her,  and  pay  her  much  respect 
on  account  of  her  superior  knowledge.  She  had  once  men- 
tioned her  views  on  this  point  to  Tom,  and  suggested  that 
he  should  stain  his  face  brown,  and  they  should  run  away 
together;  but  Tom  rejected  the  scheme  with  contempt,  ob- 
serving that  gypsies  were  thieves,  and  hardly  got  anything  to 
eat,  and  had  nothing  to  drive  but  a  donkey.  To-day,  however, 
Maggie  thought  her  misery  had  reached  a  pitch  at  which  gypsy- 
dom  was  her  only  refuge,  and  she  rose  from  her  seat  on  the 
roots  of  the  tree  with  the  sense  that  this  was  a  great  crisis  in 
her  life ;  she  would  run  straight  away  till  she  came  to  Dunlow 
Common,  where  there  would  certainly  be  gypsies ;  and  cruel 
Tom,  and  the  rest  of  her  relations  who  found  fault  with  her, 
should  never  see  her  any  more.  She  thought  of  her  father  as 
she  ran  along,  but  she  reconciled  herself  to  the  idea  of  parting 
with  him,  by  determining  that  she  would  secretly  send  him  a 


112  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

letter  by  a  small  gypsy,  who  would  run  away  without  telling 
where  she  was,  and  just  let  him  know  that  she  was  well  and 
happy,  and  always  loved  him  very  much. 

Maggie  soon  got  out  of  breath  with  running,  but  by  the  time 
Tom  got  to  the  pond  again,  she  was  at  the  distance  of  three 
long  fields,  and  was  on  the  edge  of  the  lane  leading  to  the 
highroad.  She  stopped  to  pant  a  little,  reflecting  that  running 
away  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  until  one  had  got  quite  to  the 
common  where  the  gypsies  were,  but  her  resolution  had  not 
abated :  she  presently  passed  through  the  gate  into  the  lane, 
not  knowing  where  it  would  lead  her,  for  it  was  not  this  way 
that  they  came  from  Dorlcote  Mill  to  Garum  Firs,  and  she 
felt  all  the  safer  for  that,  because  there  was  no  chance  of  her 
being  overtaken.  But  she  was  soon  aware,  not  without  trem- 
bling, that  there  were  two  men  coming  along  the  lane  in  front 
of  her :  she  had  not  thought  of  meeting  strangers  —  she  had 
been  too  much  occupied  with  the  idea  of  her  friends  coming 
after  her.  The  formidable  strangers  were  two  shabby -looking 
men  with  flushed  faces,  one  of  them  carrying  a  bundle  on  a 
stick  over  his  shoulder :  but  to  her  surprise,  while  she  was 
dreading  their  disapprobation  as  a  runaway,  the  man  with  the 
bundle  stopped,  and  in  a  half-whining  half-coaxing  tone  asked 
her  if  she  had  a  copper  to  give  a  poor  man.  Maggie  had  a 
sixpence  in  her  pocket  —  her  uncle  Glegg's  present  —  which 
she  immediately  drew  out  and  gave  this  poor  man  with  a  polite 
smile,  hoping  he  would  feel  very  kindly  towards  her  as  a  gen- 
erous person.  "  That 's  the  only  money  I  've  got,"  she  said, 
apologetically.  "  Thank  you,  little  miss,"  said  the  man  in  a 
less  respectful  and  grateful  tone  than  Maggie  anticipated,  and 
she  even  observed  that  he  smiled  and  winked  at  his  companion. 
She  walked  on  hurriedly,  but  was  aware  that  the  two  men 
were  standing  still,  probably  to  look  after  her,  and  she  pres- 
ently heard  them  laughing  loudly.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to 
her  that  they  might  think  she  was  an  idiot:  Tom  had  said 
that  her  cropped  hair  made  her  look  like  an  idiot,  and  it  was 
too  painful  an  idea  to  be  readily  forgotten.  Besides,  she  had 
no  sleeves  on  —  only  a  cape  and  a  bonnet.  It  was  clear  that  she 
was  not  likely  to  make  a  favorable  impression  on  passengers, 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  113 

and  she  thought  she  would  turn  into  the  fields  again;  but 
not  on  the  same  side  of  the  lane  as  before,  lest  they  should 
still  be  uncle  Pullet's  fields.  She  turned  through  the  first 
gate  that  was  not  locked,  and  felt  a  delightful  sense  of  privacy 
in  creeping  along  by  the  hedgerows,  after  her  recent  humili- 
ating encounter.  She  was  used  to  wandering  about  the  fields 
by  herself,  and  was  less  timid  there  than  on  the  highroad. 
Sometimes  she  had  to  climb  over  high  gates,  but  that  was  a 
small  evil ;  she  was  getting  out  of  reach  very  fast,  and  she 
should  probably  soon  come  within  sight  of  Duulow  Common, 
or  at  least  of  some  other  common,  for  she  had  heard  her  father 
say  that  you  could  n't  go  ver}^  far  without  coming  to  a  common. 
She  hoped  so,  for  she  was  getting  rather  tired  and  hungry,  and 
until  she  reached  the  gypsies  there  was  no  definite  prospect  of 
bread-and-butter.  It  was  still  broad  daylight,  for  aunt  Pullet, 
retaining  the  early  habits  of  the  Dodson  family,  took  tea  at 
half -past  four  by  the  sun,  and  at  five  by  the  kitchen  clock ;  so, 
though  it  was  nearly  an  hour  since  Maggie  started,  there  was 
no  gathering  gloom  on  the  fields  to  remind  her  that  the  night 
would  come.  Still,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  walk- 
ing a  very  great  distance  indeed,  and  it  was  really  surprising 
that  the  common  did  not  come  within  sight.  Hitherto  she 
had  been  in  the  rich  parish  of  Garum,  where  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  pasture-land,  and  she  had  only  seen  one  laborer  at  a 
distance.  That  was  fortunate  in  some  respects,  as  laborers 
might  be  too  ignorant  to  understand  the  propriety  of  her 
wanting  to  go  to  Dunlow  Common ;  yet  it  would  have  been 
better  if  she  could  have  met  some  one  who  would  tell  her  the 
way  without  wanting  to  know  anything  about  her  private 
business.  At  last,  however,  the  green  fields  came  to  an  end, 
and  Maggie  found  herself  looking  through  the  bars  of  a  gate 
into  a  lane  with  a  wide  margin  of  grass  on  each  side  of  it. 
She  had  never  seen  such  a  wide  lane  before,  and,  without  her 
knowing  why,  it  gave  her  the  impression  that  the  common 
could  not  be  far  oif ;  perhaps  it  was  because  she  saw  a  donkey 
with  a  log  to  his  foot  feeding  on  the  grassy  margin,  for  she 
had  seen  a  donkey  with  that  pitiable  encumbrance  on  Dunlow 
Common  when  she  had  been  across  it  in  her  father's  gig.     Shg 

VOL.    II.  8 


114  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

crept  through  the  bars  of  the  gate  and  walked  on  with  new 
spirit,  though  not  without  haunting  images  of  ApoUyon,  and 
a  highwayman  with  a  pistol,  and  a  blinking  dwarf  in  yellow, 
with  a  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  and  other  miscellaneous  dangers. 
T'or  poor  little  Maggie  had  at  once  the  timidity  of  an  active 
imagination  and  the  daring  that  comes  from  overmastering 
impulse.  She  had  rushed  into  the  adventure  of  seeking  her 
unknown  kindred,  the  gypsies ;  and  now  she  was  in  this 
strange  lane,  she  hardly  dared  look  on  one  side  of  her,  lest 
she  should  see  the  diabolical  blacksmith  in  his  leathern  apron 
grinning  at  her  with  arms  akimbo.  It  was  not  without  a  leap- 
ing of  the  heart  that  she  caught  sight  of  a  small  pair  of  bare 
legs  sticking  up,  feet  uppermost,  by  the  side  of  a  hillock ;  they 
seemed  something  hideously  preternatural — a  diabolical  kind 
of  fungus ;  for  she  was  too  much  agitated  at  the  first  glance 
to  see  the  ragged  clothes  and  the  dark  shaggy  head  attached  to 
them.  It  was  a  boy  asleep,  and  Maggie  trotted  along  faster 
and  more  lightly,  lest  she  should  wake  him :  it  did  not  occur 
to  her  that  he  was  one  of  her  friends  the  gypsies,  who  in  all 
probability  would  have  very  genial  manners.  But  the  fact 
was  so,  for  at  the  next  bend  in  the  lane,  Maggie  actually  saw 
the  little  semicircular  black  tent  with  the  blue  smoke  rising 
before  it,  which  was  to  be  her  refuge  from  all  the  blighting 
obloquy  that  had  pursued  her  in  civilized  life.  She  even  saw 
a  tall  female  figure  by  the  column  of  smoke  —  doubtless  the 
gypsy -mother,  who  provided  the  tea  and  other  groceries  ;  it 
was  astonishing  to  herself  that  she  did  not  feel  more  delighted. 
But  it  was  startling  to  find  the  gypsies  in  a  lane,  after  all,  and 
not  on  a  common ;  indeed,  it  was  rather  disappointing ;  for  a 
mysterious  illimitable  common,  where  there  were  sand-pits  to 
hide  in,  and  one  was  out  of  everybody's  reach,  had  always 
made  part  of  Maggie's  picture  of  gypsy  life.  She  went  on, 
however,  and  thought  with  some  comfort  that  gypsies  most 
likely  knew  nothing  about  idiots,  so  there  was  no  danger  of 
their  falling  into  the  mistake  of  setting  her  down  at  the  first 
glance  as  an  idiot.  It  was  plain  she  had  attracted  attention ; 
for  the  tall  figure,  who  proved  to  be  a  young  woman  with  a 
baby  on  her  arm,  walked  slowly  to  meet  her.     Maggie  looked 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  115 

Dp  in  the  new  face  rather  tremblingly  as  it  approached,  and 
was  reassured  by  the  thoi;ght  that  her  aunt  Pullet  and  the 
rest  were  right  when  they  called  her  a  gypsy,  for  this  face, 
with  the  bright  dark  eyes  and  the  long  hair,  was  really  some- 
thing like  what  she  used  to  see  in  the  glass  before  she  cut  her 
hair  off. 

"  My  little  lady,  where  are  you  going  to  ?  "  the  gypsy  said, 
in  a  tone  of  coaxing  deference. 

It  was  delightful,  and  just  what  Maggie  expected  :  the  gyp- 
sies saw  at  once  that  she  was  a  little  lady,  and  were  prepared 
to  treat  her  accordingly. 

"Not  any  farther,"  said  Maggie,  feeling  as  if  she  were 
saying  what  she  had  rehearsed  in  a  dream.  "  I  'm  come  to 
stay  with  you,  please." 

"  That 's  pretty  ;  come,  then.  Why,  what  a  nice  little  lady 
you  are,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  gypsy,  taking  her  by  the  hand. 
Maggie  thought  her  very  agreeable,  but  wished  she  had  not 
been  so  dirty. 

There  was  quite  a  group  round  the  fire  when  they  reached 
it.  An  old  gypsy  woman  was  seated  oil  the  ground  nursing 
her  knees,  and  occasionally  poking  a  skewer  into  the  round 
kettle  that  sent  forth  an  odorous  steam  :  two  small  shock- 
headed  children  were  lying  prone  and  resting  on  their  elbows 
something  like  small  sphinxes ;  and  a  placid  donkey  was 
bending  his  head  over  a  tall  girl,  who,  lying  on  her  back,  was 
scratching  his  nose  and  indulging  him  with  a  bite  of  excellent 
stolen  hay.  The  slanting  sunlight  fell  kindly  upon  them,  and 
the  scene  was  really  very  pretty  and  comfortable,  Maggie 
thought,  only  she  hoped  they  would  soon  set  out  the  tea-cups. 
Everything  would  be  quite  charming  when  she  had  taught 
the  gypsies  to  use  a  washing-basin,  and  to  feel  an  interest  in 
books.  It  was  a  little  confusing,  though,  that  the  young 
woman  began  to  speak  to  the  old  one  in  a  language  which 
Maggie  did  not  understand,  while  the  tall  girl,  who  was  feed- 
ing the  donkey,  sat  up  and  stared  at  her  without  offering  any 
salutation.     At  last  the  old  woman  said  — 

"  What !  my  pretty  lady,  are  you  come  to  stay  with  u»  ^ 
Sit  ye  down  and  tell  us  where  you  come  from." 


116  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

It  was  just  like  a  story  :  Maggie  liked  to  be  called  pretty 
lady  and  treated  in  this  way.     She  sat  down  and  said  — 

"  I  'm  come  from  home  because  I  'm  unhappy,  and  I  mean 
to  be  a  gypsy.  I  '11  live  with  you  if  you  like,  and  I  can  teach 
you  a  great  many  things." 

"  Such  a  clever  little  lady,"  said  the  woman  with  the  baby, 
sitting  down  by  Maggie,  and  allowing  baby  to  crawl ;  "  and 
such  a  pretty  bonnet  and  frock,"  she  added,  taking  off 
Maggie's  bonnet  and  looking  at  it  while  she  made  an  obser- 
vation to  the  old  woman,  in  the  unknown  language.  The  tall 
girl  snatched  the  bonnet  and  put  it  on  her  own  head  hind- 
foremost  with  a  grin  ;  but  Maggie  was  determined  not  to  show 
any  weakness  on  this  subject,  as  if  she  were  susceptible  about 
her  bonnet. 

"  I  don't  want  to  wear  a  bonnet,"  she  said,  "  I  'd  rather 
wear  a  red  handkerchief,  like  yours  "  (looking  at  her  friend  by 
her  side)  ;  "  my  hair  was  quite  long  till  yesterday,  when  I  cut 
it  off :  but  I  dare  say  it  will  grow  again  very  soon,"  she  added 
apologetically,  thinking  it  probable  the  gypsies  had  a  strong 
prejudice  in  favor  of  long  hair.  And  Maggie  had  forgotten 
even  her  hunger  at  that  moment  in  the  desire  to  conciliate 
gypsy  opinion. 

"  Oh  what  a  nice  little  lady  !  —  and  rich,  I  'm  sure,"  said 
the  old  woman.  "  Did  n't  you  live  in  a  beautiful  house  at 
home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  home  is  pretty,  and  I  'm  very  fond  of  the  river, 
where  we  go  fishing  —  but  I  'm  often  very  unhappy.  I  should 
have  liked  to  bring  my  books  with  me,  but  I  came  away  in  a 
hurry,  you  know.  But  I  can  tell  you  almost  everything  there 
is  in  my  books,  I  've  read  them  so  many  times  — and  that  will 
amuse  you.  And  I  can  tell  you  something  about  Geography 
too  —  that 's  about  the  world  we  live  in  —  very  useful  and 
interesting.     Did  you  ever  hear  about  Columbus  ?  " 

Maggie's  eyes  had  begun  to  sparkle  and  her  cheeks  to  flush 
—  she  was  really  beginning  to  instruct  the  gypsies,  and  gain- 
ing great  influence  over  them.  The  gypsies  themselves  were 
not  without  amazement  at  this  talk,  though  their  attention 
was  divided  by  the  contents  of  Maggie's  pocket,  which  the 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  117 

friend  at  her  right  hand  had  by  this  time  emptied  without 
attracting  her  notice. 

"  Is  that  where  you  live,  my  little  lady  ? "  said  the  old 
woman,  at  the  mention  of  Columbus. 

"  Oh  no !  "  said  Maggie,  with  some  pity  ;  "  Columbus  was 
a  very  wonderful  man,  who  found  out  half  the  world,  and 
they  put  chains  on  him  and  treated  him  very  badly,  you  know 
—  it's  in  my  Catechism  of  Geography  —  but  perhaps  it's 
rather  too  long  to  tell  before  tea  ...  7  iva7it  my  tea  soy 

The  last  words  burst  from  Maggie,  in  spite  of  herself, 
with  a  sudden  drop  from  patronizing  instruction  to  simple 
peevishness. 

"  Why,  she  's  hungry,  poor  little  lady,"  said  the  younger 
woman.  "Give  her  some  o'  the  cold  victual.  You've  been 
walking  a  good  way,  I  '11  be  bound,  my  dear.  Where  's  your 
home  ? " 

"  It 's  Dorlcote  Mill,  a  good  way  off,"  said  Maggie.  "  My 
father  is  Mr.  Tulliver,  but  we  must  n't  let  him  know  where  I 
am,  else  he  '11  fetch  me  home  again.  Where  does  the  queen 
of  the  gypsies  live  ?  " 

"  What !  do  you  want  to  go  to  her,  my  little  lady  ?  "  said 
the  younger  woman.  The  tall  girl  meanwhile  was  constantly 
staring  at  Maggie  and  grinning.  Her  manners  were  certainly 
not  agreeable. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  "  I  'm  only  thinking  that  if  she  is  n't  a 
very  good  queen  you  might  be  glad  when  she  died,  and  you 
could  choose  another.  If  I  was  a  queen,  I  'd  be  a  very  good 
queen,  and  kind  to  everybody." 

"  Here 's  a  bit  o'  nice  victual,  then,"  said  the  old  woman, 
handing  to  Maggie  a  lump  of  dry  bread,  which  she  had  taken 
from  a  bag  of  scraps,  and  a  piece  of  cold  bacon. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  the  food  without 
taking  it ;  "  but  will  you  give  me  some  bread-and-butter  and 
tea  instead  ?     I  don't  like  bacon." 

"  Wi;  've  got  no  tea  nor  butter,"  said  the  old  woman  with 
something  like  a  scowl,  as  if  she  were  getting  tired  of 
coaxing. 

"  Oh,  a  little  bread  and  treacle  would  do,"  said  Maggie. 


118  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"We  han't  got  no  treacle,"  said  the  old  woman  crossly, 
whereupon  there  followed  a  sharp  dialogue  between  the  two 
women  in  their  unknown  tongue,  and  one  of  the  small  sphinxes 
snatched  at  the  bread-and-bacon,  and  began  to  eat  it.  At  this 
moment  the  tall  girl,  who  had  gone  a  few  yards  off,  came  back, 
and  said  something  which  produced  a  strong  effect.  The  old 
woman,  seeming  to  forget  Maggie's  hunger,  poked  the  skewer 
into  the  pot  with  new  vigor,  and  the  5'ounger  crept  under 
the  tent,  and  reached  out  some  platters  and  spoons.  Maggie 
trembled  a  little,  and  was  afraid  the  tears  would  come  into 
her  eyes.  Meanwhile  the  tall  girl  gave  a  shrill  cry,  and  pres- 
».ntly  came  running  up  the  boy  whom  Maggie  had  passed  as 
he  was  sleeping  —  a  rough  urchin  about  the  age  of  Tom.  He 
stared  at  Maggie,  and  there  ensued  much  incomprehensible 
chattering.  She  felt  very  lonely,  and  was  quite  sure  she 
should  begin  to  cry  before  long :  the  gypsies  did  n't  seem  to 
mind  her  at  all,  and  she  felt  quite  weak  among  them.  But 
the  springing  tears  were  checked  by  new  terror,  when  two 
men  came  up,  whose  approach  had  been  the  cause  of  the  sud- 
den excitement.  The  elder  of  the  two  carried  a  bag,  which  he 
flung  down,  addressing  the  women  in  a  loud  and  scolding  tone, 
which  they  answered  by  a  shower  of  treble  sauciness ;  while 
a  black  cur  ran  barking  up  to  Maggie,  and  threw  her  into  a 
tremor  that  only  found  a  new  cause  in  the  curses  with  which 
the  younger  man  called  the  dog  off,  and  gave  him  a  rap  with  a 
great  stick  he  held  in  his  hand. 

Maggie  felt  that  it  was  impossible  she  should  ever  be  queen 
of  these  people,  or  ever  communicate  to  them  amusing  and 
useful  knowledge. 

Both  the  men  now  seemed  to  be  inquiring  about  Maggie, 
for  they  looked  at  her,  and  the  tone  of  the  conversation 
became  of  that  pacific  kind  which  implies  curiosity  on  one 
side  and  the  power  of  satisfying  it  on  the  other.  At  last 
the  younger  woman  said  in  her  previous  deferential  coaxing 
tone — 

"  This  nice  little  lady 's  come  to  live  with  us :  are  n't  you 
glad?" 

"  Ay,  very  glad,"  said  the  younger  man,  who  was  looking  at 


A- 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  119 

Maggie's  silver  thimble  and  other  small  matters  that  had  been 
taken  from  her  pocket.  He  returned  them  all  except  the 
thimble  to  the  younger  woman,  with  some  observation,  and 
she  immediately  restored  them  to  Maggie's  pocket,  while  the 
men  seated  themselves,  and  began  to  attack  the  contents  of 
the  kettle — a  stew  of  meat  and  potatoes  —  which  had  been 
taken  off  the  fire  and  turned  out  into  a  yellow  platter. 

Maggie  began  to  think  that  Tom  must  be  right  about  the 
gypsies  —  they  must  certainly  be  thieves,  unless  the  man 
meant  to  return  her  thimble  by-and-by.  She  would  willingly 
have  given  it  to  him,  for  she  was  not  at  all  attached  to  her 
thimble ;  but  the  idea  that  she  was  among  thieves  prevented 
her  from  feeling  any  comfort  in  the  revival  of  deference  and 
attention  towards  her  —  all  thieves,  except  Robin  Hood,  were 
wicked  people.     The  women  saw  she  was  frightened. 

"  We  've  got  nothing  nice  for  a  lady  to  eat,"  said  the  old 
woman,  in  her  coaxing  tone.  "  And  she  's  so  hungry,  sweet 
little  lady." 

"  Here,  my  dear,  try  if  you  can  eat  a  bit  o'  this,"  said  the 
younger  woman,  handing  some  of  the  stew  on  a  brown  dish 
with  an  iron  spoon  to  Maggie,  who,  remembering  that  the  old 
woman  had  seemed  angry  with  her  for  not  liking  the  bread- 
and-bacon,  dared  not  refuse  the  stew,  though  fear  had  chased 
away  her  appetite.  If  her  father  would  but  come  by  in  the 
gig  and  take  her  up!  Or  even  if  Jack  the  Giantkiller,  or 
Mr.  Greatheart,  or  St.  George  who  slew  the  dragon  on  the 
halfpennies,  would  happen  to  pass  that  way  !  But  Maggie 
thought  with  a  sinking  heart  that  these  heroes  were  never  seen 
.in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Ogg's  —  nothing  very  wonderful 
ever  came  there. 

Maggie  Tulliver,  you  perceive,  was  by  no  means  that  well- 
trained,  well-informed  young  person  that  a  small  female  of 
eight  or  nine  necessarily  is  in  these  days  :  she  had  only  been 
to  school  a  year  at  St.  Ogg's,  and  had  so  few  books  that  she 
sometimes  read  the  dictionary  ;  so  that  in  travelling  over  her 
small  mind  you  would  have  found  the  most  unexpected  igno- 
rance as  well  as  unexpected  knowledge.  She  could  have 
informed  you  that   there  was   such  a  word  as  "polygamy," 


120  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

and  being  also  acquainted  with  "polysyllable,"  she  had  de- 
duced the  conclusion  that  "  poly  "  meant  "  many ; "  but-  she 
had  had  no  idea  that  gypsies  were  not  well  supplied  with 
groceries,  and  her  thoughts  generally  were  the  oddest  mixture 
of  clear-eyed  acumen  and  blind  dreams. 

Her  ideas  about  the  gypsies  had  undergone  a  rapid  modifi- 
cation in  the  last  iive  minutes.  From  having  considered  them 
very  respectful  companions,  amenable  to  instruction,  she  had 
begun  to  think  that  they  meant  perhaps  to  kill  her  as  soon  as 
it  was  dark,  and  cut  up  her  body  for  gradual  cooking :  the 
suspicion  crossed  her  that  the  fierce-eyed  old  man  was  in  fact 
the  devil,  who  might  drop  that  transparent  disguise  at  any 
moment,  and  turn  either  into  the  grinning  blacksmith  or  else 
a  fiery-eyed  monster  with  dragon's  wings.  It  was  no  use 
trying  to  eat  the  stew,  and  yet  the  thing  she  most  dreaded 
was  to  offend  the  gypsies,  by  betraying  her  extremely  un- 
favorable opinion  of  them,  and  she  wondered,  with  a  keenness 
of  interest  that  no  theologian  could  have  exceeded,  whether, 
if  the  devil  were  really  present,  he  would  know  her  thoughts. 

"  What !  you  don't  like  the  smell  of  it,  my  dear,"  said  the 
young  woman,  observing  that  Maggie  did  not  even  take  a 
spoonful  of  the  stew.     "  Try  a  bit  —  come." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  summoning  all  her  force  for 
a  desperate  effort,  and  trying  to  smile  in  a  friendly  way.  "I 
have  n't  time,  I  think  —  it  seems  getting  darker.  I  think 
I  must  go  home  now,  and  come  again  another  day,  and  then  I 
can  bring  you  a  basket  with  some  jam-tarts  and  things." 

Maggie  rose  from  her  seat  as  she  threw  out  this  illusory 
prospect,  devoutly  hoping  that  Apollyon  was  gullible ;  but  her 
hope  sank  when  the  old  gypsy- woman  said,  "  Stop  a  bit,  stop 
a  bit,  little  lady  —  we  '11  take  you  home,  all  safe,  when  we  've 
done  supper :  you  shall  ride  home,  like  a  lady." 

Maggie  sat  down  again,  with  little  faith  in  this  promise, 
though  she  presently  saw  the  tall  girl  putting  a  bridle  on  the 
donkey,  and  throwing  a  couple  of  bags  on  his  back. 

"Now  then,  little  missis,"  said  the  younger  man,  rising,  and 
leading  the  donkey  forward,  "  tell  us  where  you  live  —  what 's 
the  name  o'  the  place  ?" 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  121 

"Dorlcote  Mill  is  my  home,"  said  Maggie,  eagerly.  "My 
father  is  Mr,  Tulliver  —  lie  lives  there." 

"What !  a  big  mill  a  little  way  this  side  o'  St.  Ogg's?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  Is  it  far  off  ?  I  thiuk  I  should  like 
to  walk  there,  if  you  please." 

"  No,  no,  it  '11  be  getting  dark,  we  must  make  haste.  And 
the  donkey  '11  carry  you  as  nice  as  can  be  —  you  '11  see." 

He  lifted  Maggie  as  he  spoke,  and  set  her  on  the  donkey. 
She  felt  relieved  that  it  was  not  the  old  man  who  seemed  to 
be  going  with  her,  but  she  had  only  a  trembling  hope  that  she 
was  really  going  home. 

"Here  's  your  pretty  bonnet,"  said  the  younger  woman,  put- 
ting that  recently-despised  but  now  welcome  article  of  costume 
on  Maggie's  head  ;  "  and  you  '11  say  we  've  been  very  good  to 
you,  won't  you?  and  what  a  nice  little  lady  we  said  you  was." 

"  Oh  yes,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  "  I  'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you.  But  I  wish  you  'd  go  with  me  too."  She  thought 
anything  was  better  than  going  with  one  of  the  dreadful  men 
alone :  it  would  be  more  cheerful  to  be  murdered  by  a  larger 
party. 

"  Ah,  you  're  fondest  o'  me,  are  n't  you  ?  "  said  the  woman. 
"But  I  can't  go  —  you'll  go  too  fast  for  me." 

It  now  appeared  that  the  man  also  was  to  be  seated  on  the 
donkey,  holding  Maggie  before  him,  and  she  was  as  incapable 
of  remonstrating  against  this  arrangement  as  the  donkey  him- 
self, though  no  nightmare  had  ever  seemed  to  her  more  horri- 
ble. When  the  woman  had  patted  her  on  the  back,  and  said 
"  Good-by,"  the  donkey,  at  a  strong  hint  from  the  man's  stick, 
set  oif  at  a  rapid  walk  along  the  lane  towards  the  point  Maggie 
had  come  from  an  hour  ago,  while  the  tall  girl  and  the  rough 
urchin,  also  furnished  with  sticks,  obligingly  escorted  them  for 
the  first  hundred  yards,  with  much  screaming  and  thwacking, 

Not  Leonore,  in  that  preternatural  midnight  excursion  with 
her  phantom  lover,  was  more  terrified  than  poor  IMaggie  in  this 
entirely  natural  ride  on  a  short-paced  donkey,  Avith  a  gypsy 
behind  her,  who  considered  that  he  was  earning  half-a-crown. 
The  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  seemed  to  have  a  portentous 
meaning,  with  which  the  alarming  bray  of  the  second  donkey 


122  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"with  the  log  on  its  foot  must  surely  have  some  connectioiL 
Two  low  thatched  cottages  —  the  only  houses  they  passed  in 
this  lane  —  seemed  to  add  to  its  dreariness  :  they  had  no  win- 
dows to  speak  of,  and  the  doors  were  closed ;  it  was  probable 
that  they  were  inhabited  by  witches,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  find 
that  the  donkey  did  not  stop  there. 

At  last  —  oh,  sight  of  joy!  —  this  lane,  the  longest  in  the 
world,  was  coming  to  an  end,  was  opening  on  a  broad  high- 
roa.d,  where  there  was  actually  a  coach  passing !  And  there 
was  a  finger-post  at  the  corner :  she  had  surely  seen  that  finger- 
post before  —  "  To  St.  Ogg's,  2  miles."  The  gypsy  really  meant 
to  take  her  home,  then :  he  was  probably  a  good  man,  after  all, 
and  might  have  been  rather  hurt  at  the  thought  that  she  did  n't 
like  coming  with  him  alone.  This  idea  became  stronger  as 
she  felt  more  and  more  certain  that  she  knew  the  road  quite 
well,  and  she  was  considering  how  she  might  open  a  conversar 
tion  with  the  injured  gypsy,  and  not  only  gratify  his  feelings 
but  efface  the  impression  of  her  cowardice,  when,  as  they 
feached  a  cross-road,  Maggie  caught  sight  of  some  one  coming 
on  a  white-faced  horse. 

"  Oh,  stop,  stop ! "  she  cried  out.  "  There 's  my  father !  Oh, 
father,  father ! " 

The  sudden  joy  was  almost  painful,  and  before  her  father 
reached  her,  she  was  sobbing.  Great  was  Mr.  TuUiver's  won- 
der, for  he  had  made  a  round  from  Basset,  and  had  not  yet 
been  home. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  meaning  o'  this  ?  "  he  said,  checking  his 
horse,  while  Maggie  slipped  from  the  donkey  and  ran  to  her 
father's  stirrup. 

"  The  little  miss  lost  herself,  I  reckon,"  said  the  gypsy. 
"  She  'd  come  to  our  tent  at  the  far  end  o'  Dunlow  Lane,  and 
I  was  bringing  her  where  she  said  her  home  was.  It 's  a  good 
way  to  come  arter  being  on  tlie  tramp  all  day." 

"Oh  yes,  father,  he's  been  very  good  to  bring  me  home,"' 
said  Maggie.     "  A  very  kind,  good  man  ! " 

"Here,  then,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  taking  out  five 
shillings.  "It's  the  best  day's  work  you  ever  did.  I  couldn't 
afford  to  lose  the  little  wench ;  here,  lift  her  up  before  me." 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  123 

"  Why,  Maggie,  how  's  this,  how  's  this  ?  "  he  said,  as  they 
rode  along,  while  she  laid  her  head  against  her  father,  and 
sobbed.  "How  came  you  to  be  rambling  about  and  lose 
yourself  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,"  sobbed  Maggie,  "  I  ran  away  because  I  was  sc 
unhappy  —  Tom  was  so  angry  with  me.     I  could  n't  bear  it." 

"Pooh,  pooh,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  soothingly,  "you  mustn't 
think  o'  running  away  from  father.  "What  'ud  father  do  without 
his  little  wench  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  I  never  will  again,  father  —  never." 

Mr.  Tulliver  spoke  his  mind  very  strongly  when  he  reached 
home  that  evening,  and  the  effect  was  seen  in  the  remarkable 
fact,  that  Maggie  never  heard  one  reproach  from  her  mother, 
or  one  taunt  from  Tom,  about  this  foolish  business  of  her  run- 
ning away  to  the  gypsies.  Maggie  was  rather  awe-stricken  by 
this  unusual  treatment,  and  sometimes  thought  that  her  con- 
duct had  been  too  wicked  to  be  alluded  to. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MR.    AND   MRS.    GLEGG   AT   HOME. 

In  order  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glegg  at  home,  we  must  enter 
the  town  of  St.  Ogg's  —  that  venerable  town  with  the  red- 
fluted  roofs  and  the  broad  warehouse  gables,  where  the  blrick 
ships  unlade  themselves  of  their  burthens  from  the  far  north, 
and  carry  away,  in  exchange,  the  precious  inland  products,  the 
well-crushed  cheese  and  the  soft  fleeces,  which  my  refined 
readers  have  doubtless  become  acquainted  with  through  the 
medium  of  the  best  classic  pastorals. 

It  is  one  of  those  old,  old  towns  which  impress  one  as  a  con- 
tinuation and  outgrowth  of  nature,  as  much  as  the  nests  of  the 
bower-birds  or  the  winding  galleries  of  the  white  ants  :  a  town 
which  carries  the  traces  of  its  long  growth  and  history  like 
a  millennial  tree,  and  has  sprung  up  and  developed  in  the 
same  spot  between  the  river  and  the  low  hill  from  the  time 


124  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

when  the  Eoman  legions  turned  their  backs  on  it  from  the 
camp  on  the  hillside,  and  the  long-haired  sea-kings  came  up 
the  river  and  looked  with  fierce  eager  eyes  at  the  fatness  of 
the  land.  It  is  a  town  "  familiar  with  forgotten  years."  The 
shadow  of  the  Saxon  hero-king  still  walks  there  fitfully,  review- 
ing the  scenes  of  his  youth  and  love-time,  and  is  met  by  the 
gloomier  shadov7  of  the  dreadful  heathen  Dane,  who  was  stabbed 
in  the  midst  of  his  warriors  by  the  sword  of  an  invisible  avenger, 
and  who  rises  on  autumn  evenings  like  a  white  mist  from  his 
tumulus  on  the  hill,  and  hovers  in  the  court  of  the  old  hall  by 
the  river-side  —  the  spot  where  he  was  thus  miraculously  slain 
in  the  days  before  the  old  hall  was  built.  It  was  the  Normans 
who  began  to  build  that  fine  old  hall,  which  is  like  the  town, 
telling  of  the  thoughts  and  hands  of  widely  sundered  genera- 
tions ;  but  it  is  all  so  old  that  we  look  with  loving  pardon  at 
its  inconsistencies,  and  are  well  content  that  they  who  built 
the  stone  oriel,  and  they  who  built  the  Gothic  facade  and 
towers  of  finest  small  brickwork  with  the  trefoil  ornament, 
and  the  windows  and  battlements  defined  with  stone,  did  not 
sacrilegiously  pull  down  the  ancient  half-timbered  body  with 
its  oak-roofed  bauqueting-hall. 

But  older  even  than  this  old  hall  is  perhaps  the  bit  of  wall 
now  built  into  the  belfry  of  the  parish  church,  and  said  to 
be  a  remnant  of  the  original  chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Ogg,  the 
patron  saint  of  this  ancient  town,  of  whose  history  I  possess 
several  manuscript  versions.  I  incline  to  the  briefest,  since, 
if  it  should  not  be  wholly  true,  it  is  at  least  likely  to  contain 
the  least  falsehood.  "  Ogg  the  son  of  Beorl,"  says  my  private 
hagiographer,  "  was  a  boatman  who  gained  a  scanty  living  by 
ferrying  passengers  across  the  river  Floss.  And  it  came  to 
pass,  one  evening  when  the  winds  were  high,  that  there  sat 
moaning  by  the  brink  of  the  river  a  woman  with  a  child  in 
her  arms ;  and  she  was  clad  in  rags,  and  had  a  worn  and  with- 
ered look,  and  she  craved  to  be  rowed  across  the  river.  And 
the  men  thereabout  questioned  her,  and  said,  *  Wherefore  dost 
thou  desire  to  cross  the  river  ?  Tarry  till  the  morning,  and 
take  shelter  hei'e  for  the  night :  so  shalt  thou  be  wise  and  not 
foolish.'     Still  she  went  on  to  mourn  and  crave.     But  Ogg  the 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  125 

son  of  Beorl  came  up  and  said,  '  I  will  ferry  thee  across :  it  is 
enough  that  thy  heart  needs  it.'  And  he  ferried  her  across. 
And  it  came  to  pass,  when  she  stepped  ashore,  that  her  rags 
were  turned  into  robes  of  flowing  white,  aud  her  face  became 
bright  with  exceeding  beauty,  and  there  was  a  glory  around  it, 
so  that  she  shed  a  light  on  the  water  like  the  moon  in  its 
brightness.  And  she  said  —  '  Ogg,  the  son  of  Beorl,  thou  art 
blessed  in  that  thou  didst  not  question  and  wrangle  with  the 
heart's  need,  but  wast  smitten  with  pity,  and  didst  straight- 
way relieve  the  same.  And  from  henceforth  whoso  steps  into 
thy  boat  shall  be  ir  no  peril  from  the  storm  ;  and  whenever  it 
puts  forth  to  the  rescue,  it  shall  save  the  lives  both  of  men 
and  beasts.'  And  when  the  floods  came,  many  were  saved  by 
reason  of  that  blessing  on  the  boat.  But  when  Ogg  the  son  of 
Beorl  died,  behold,  in  the  parting  of  his  soul,  the  boat  loosed 
itself  from  its  moorings,  and  was  floated  with  the  ebbing  tide 
in  great  swiftness  to  the  ocean,  and  was  seen  no  more.  Yet  it 
was  witnessed  in  the  floods  of  aftertime,  that  at  the  coming 
on  of  eventide,  Ogg  the  son  of  Beorl  was  always  seen  with  his 
boat  upon  the  wide-spreading  waters,  and  the  Blessed  Virgin 
sat  in  the  prow,  shedding  a  light  around  as  of  the  moon  in  its 
brightness,  so  that  the  rowers  in  the  gathering  darkness  took 
heart  and  pulled  anew." 

This  legend,  one  sees,  reflects  from  a  far-off  time  the  visita- 
tion of  the  floods,  which,  even  when  they  left  human  life  un- 
touched, were  widely  fatal  to  the  helpless  cattle,  and  swept 
as  sudden  death  over  all  smaller  living  things.  But  the  town 
knew  worse  troubles  even  than  the  floods  —  troubles  of  the 
civil  wars,  when  it  was  a  continual  fighting-place,  Avhere  first 
Puritans  thanked  God  for  the  blood  of  the  Loyalists,  and  then 
Loyalists  thanked  God  for  the  blood  of  the  Puritans.  Many 
honest  citizens  lost  all  their  possessions  for  conscience'  sake 
in  those  times,  and  went  forth  beggared  from  their  native 
town.  Doubtless  there  are  many  houses  standing  now  on 
which  those  honest  citizens  turned  their  backs  in  sorrow : 
quaint-gabled  houses  looking  on  the  river,  jammed  between 
newer  warehouses,  and  penetrated  by  surprising  passages, 
which  turn  and  turn  at  sharp  angles  till  they  lead  you  out  on 


126  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

a  muddy  strand  overflowed  continually  by  the  rushing  tide. 
Everywhere  the  brick  houses  have  a  mellow  look,  and  in  Mrs. 
Glegg's  day  there  was  no  incongruous  new-fashioned  smartness, 
no  plate-glass  in  shop-windows,  no  fresh  stucco-facing  or  other 
fallacious  attempt  to  make  fine  old  red  St.  Ogg's  wear  the  air 
of  a  town  that  sprang  up  yesterday.  The  shop-windows  were 
small  and  unpretending  ;  for  the  farmers'  wives  and  daughters 
who  came  to  do  their  shopping  on  market-days  were  not  to 
be  withdrawn  from  their  regular  well-known  shops ;  and  the 
tradesmen  had  no  wares  intended  for  customers  who  would  go 
on  their  way  and  be  seen  no  more.  Ah  !  even  Mrs.  Glegg's  day 
seems  far  back  in  the  past  now^  separated  from  us  by  changes 
that  widen  the  years.  War  and  the  rumor  of  war  had  then  died 
out  from  the  minds  of  men,  and  if  they  were  ever  thought  of 
by  the  farmers  in  drab  great-coats,  who  shook  the  grain  out  of 
their  sample-bags  and  buzzed  over  it  in  the  full  market-place, 
it  was  as  a  state  of  things  that  belonged  to  a  past  golden  age, 
when  prices  were  high.  Sarely  the  time  was  gone  forever  when 
the  broad  river  could  bring  up  unwelcome  ships  :  Eussia  was 
only  the  place  where  the  linseed  came  from  —  the  more  the  bet- 
ter—  making  grist  for  the  great  vertical  millstones  with  their 
scythe-like  arms,  roaring  and  grinding  and  carefully  sweeping 
as  if  an  informing  soul  were  in  them.  The  Catholics,  bad  har- 
vests, and  the  mysterious  fluctuations  of  trade,  were  the  three 
evils  mankind  had  to  fear  :  even  the  floods  had  not  been  great 
of  late  years.  The  mind  of  St.  Ogg's  did  not  look  extensively 
before  or  after.  It  inherited  a  long  past  without  thinking  of 
it,  and  had  no  eyes  for  the  spirits  that  walk  the  streets.  Since 
the  centuries  when  St.  Ogg  with  his  boat  and  the  Virgin 
Mother  at  the  prow  had  been  seen  on  the  wide  water,  so 
many  memories  had  been  left  behind,  and  had  gradually  van- 
ished like  the  receding  hill -tops  !  And  the  present  time  was 
like  the  level  plain  where  men  lose  their  belief  in  volcanoes 
and  earthquakes,  thinking  to-morrow  will  be  as  yesterday,  and 
the  giant  forces  that  used  to  shake  the  earth  are  forever  laid 
to  sleep.  The  days  were  gone  when  people  could  be  greatly 
wrought  upon  by  their  faith,  still  less  change  it :  the  Catholics 
were  formidable  because  they  would  lay  hold  of  government 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  127 

and  property,  aud  burn  men  alive  ;  not  because  any  sane  and 
honest  parishioner  of  St.  Ogg's  could  be  brought  to  believe  in 
the  Pope.  One  aged  person  remembered  how  a  rude  multi- 
tude had  been  swayed  when  John  Wesley  preached  in  the 
cattle  market ;  but  for  a  long  while  it  had  not  been  expected 
of  preachers  that  they  should  shake  the  souls  of  men.  An  oc- 
casional burst  of  fervor,  in  Dissenting  pulpits,  on  the  subject 
of  infant  baptism,  was  the  only  symptom  of  a  zeal  unsuited  to 
sober  times  when  men  had  done  with  change.  Protestantism 
sat  at  ease,  unmindful  of  schisms,  careless  of  proselytism  : 
Dissent  was  an  inheritance  along  with  a  superior  pew  aud  a 
business  connection  ;  and  Churchmanship  only  wondered  con- 
temptously  at  Dissent  as  a  foolish  habit  that  clung  greatly 
to  families  in  the  grocery  and  chandlering  lines,  though  not 
incompatible  with  prosperous  wholesale  dealing.  But  with  the 
Catholic  Question  had  come  a  slight  wind  of  controversy  to 
break  the  calm  •.  the  elderly  rector  had  become  occasionally 
historical  and  argumentative,  and  Mr.  Spray,  the  Independent 
minister,  had  begun  to  preach  political  sermons,  in  which  he 
distinguished  with  much  subtlety  between  his  fervent  belief 
in  the  right  of  the  Catholics  to  the  franchise  and  his  fervent 
belief  in  their  eternal  perdition.  Most  of  Mr.  Spray's  hearers, 
however,  wei'e  incapable  of  following  his  subtleties,  and  many 
old-fashioned  Dissenters  were  much  pained  by  his  "  siding 
with  the  Catholics ; "  while  others  thought  he  had  better  let 
politics  alone.  Public  spirit  was  not  held  in  high  esteem  at  St. 
Ogg's,  and  men  who  busied  themselves  with  political  questions 
were  regarded  with  some  suspicion,  as  dangerous  characters  : 
they  were  usually  persons  who  had  little  or  no  business  of 
their  own  to  manage,  or,  if  they  had,  were  likely  enough  to 
become  insolvent. 

This  was  the  general  aspect  of  things  at  St.  Ogg's  in  Mrs. 
Glegg's  day,  and  at  that  particular  period  in  her  family  his- 
tory when  she  had  had  her  quarrel  with  Mr.  Tulliver.  It  was 
a  time  when  ignorance  was  much  more  comfortable  than  at 
present,  and  was  received  with  all  the  honors  in  very  good 
society,  without  being  obliged  to  dress  itself  in  an  elaborate 
costume  of  knowledge ;  a  time  when  cheap  periodicals  were 


128  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

not,  and  when  country  surgeons  never  thought  of  asking  their 
female  patients  if  they  were  fond  of  reading,  but  simply  took 
it  for  granted  that  they  preferred  gossip  :  a  time  when  ladies 
in  rich  silk  gowns  wore  large  pockets,  in  which  they  carried  a 
mutton-bone  to  secure  them  against  cramp.  Mrs.  Glegg  carried 
such  a  bone,  which  she  had  inherited  from  her  grandmother 
with  a  brocaded  gown  that  would  stand  up  empty,  like  a  suit 
of  armor,  and  a  silver-headed  walking-stick;  for  the  Dodson 
family  had  been  respectable  for  many  generations. 

Mrs.  Glegg  had  both  a  front  and  a  back  parlor  in  her  excel- 
lent house  at  St.  Ogg's,  so  that  she  had  two  points  of  view 
from  which  she  could  observe  the  weakness  of  her  fellow-beings, 
and  reinforce  her  thankfulness  for  her  own  exceptional  strength 
of  mind.  From  her  front  windows  she  could  look  down  the 
Tofton  Eoad,  leading  out  of  St.  Ogg's,  and  note  the  growing 
tendency  to  "  gadding  about "  in  the  wives  of  men  not  retired 
from  business,  together  with  a  practice  of  wearing  woven  cot- 
ton stockings,  which  opened  a  dreary  prospect  for  the  coming 
generation  ;  and  from  her  back  windows  she  could  look  down 
the  pleasant  garden  and  orchard  which  stretched  to  the  river, 
and  observe  the  folly  of  Mr.  Glegg  in  spending  his  time  among 
"them  flowers  and  vegetables."  For  Mr.  Glegg,  having  re- 
tired from  active  business  as  a  wool-stapler,  for  the  purpose 
of  enjoying  himself  through  the  rest  of  his  life,  had  found 
this  last  occupation  so  much  more  severe  than  his  business, 
that  he  had  been  driven  into  amateur  hard  labor  as  a  dissipa- 
tion, and  habitually  relaxed  by  doing  the  work  of  two  ordinary 
gardeners.  The  economizing  of  a  gardener's  wages  might 
perhaps  have  induced  Mrs.  Glegg  to  wink  at  this  folly^  if  it 
were  possible  for  a  healthy  female  mind  even  to  simulate  re- 
spect for  a  husband's  hobby.  But  it  is  well  known  that  this 
conjugal  complacency  belongs  only  to  the  weaker  portion  of 
the  sex,  who  are  scarcely  alive  to  the  responsibilities  of  a  wife 
as  a  constituted  check  on  her  husband's  pleasures,  which  are 
hardly  ever  of  a  rational  or  commendable  kind. 

Mr.  Glegg  on  his  side,  too,  had  a  double  source  of  mental 
occupation,  which  gave  every  promise  of  being  inexhaustible. 
On  the  one  hand,  he  surprised  himself  by  his  discoveries  if 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  129 

natural  history,  finding  that  his  piece  of  garden-groimd  con- 
tained wonderful  caterpillars,  slugs,  and  insects,  which,  so  far 
as  he  had  heard,  had  never  before  attracted  human  observa- 
tion ;  and  he  noticed  remarkable  coincidences  between  these 
zoological  phenomena  and  the  great  events  of  that  time, — as, 
for  example,  that  before  the  burning  of  York  Minster  there 
had  been  mysterious  serpentine  marks  on  the  leaves  of  the 
rose-trees,  together  with  an  unusual  prevalence  of  slugs,  which 
he  had  been  puzzled  to  know  the  meaning  of,  until  it  flashed 
upon  him  with  this  melancholy  conflagration.     (Mr.  Glegg  had 
an  unusual  amount  of  mental  activity,  which,  when  disengaged 
from  the  wool  business,  naturally  made  itself  a  pathway  in 
other  directions.)     And  his  second  subject  of  meditation  was 
the  "  contrairiness  "  of  the  female  mind,  as  typically  exhibited 
in   Mrs.   Glegg.     That   a  creature  made  —  in  a   genealogical 
sense  —  out  of  a  man's  rib,  and  in  this  particular  case  main- 
tained in  the  highest  respectability  without  any  trouble  of  her 
own,  should  be  normally  in  a  state  of  contradiction  to  the 
blandest  propositions  and  even  to  the  most  accommodating 
concessions,  was  a  mystery  in  the  scheme  of  things  to  which 
he  had  often  in  vain  sought  a  clew  in  the  early  chapters  of 
Genesis.     Mr.  Glegg  had  chosen  the  eldest  Miss  Dodson  as 
a  handsome  embodiment  of  female  prudence  and  thrift,  and 
being  himself  of  a  money-getting,  money-keeping  turn,  had 
calculated  on  much  conjugal  harmony.     But  in  that  curious 
compound,  the  feminine  character,  it  may  easily  happen  that 
the  flavor  is  unpleasant  in  spite  of  excellent  ingredients ;  and 
a  fine  systematic  stinginess  may  be  accompanied  with  a  season- 
ing that  quite  spoils  its  relish.     Now,  good  Mr.  Glegg  himself 
was  stingy  in  the  most  amiable  manner :  his  neighbors  called 
him  "  near,"  which  always  means  that  the  person  in  question 
is   a  lovable   skinflint.     If  you   expressed   a   preference   for 
cheese-parings,  Mr.  Glegg  would  rem.ember  to  save  them  for 
you,  with  a  good-natured  delight  in  gratifying  your  palate,  and 
he  was  given  to  pet  all  animals  which  required  no  appreciable 
keep.     There  was  no  humbug  or  hypocrisy  about  Mr.  Glegg : 
his  eyes  would  have  watered  with  true  feeling  over  the  sale 
of  a  widow's  furniture,  which  a  five-pound  note  from  his  side- 

VOL.  n.  ^ 


130  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

pocket  would  have  prevented ;  but  a  donation  of  five  pounds 
to  a  person  "  in  a  small  way  of  life  "  would  have  seemed  to 
him  a  mad  kind  of  lavishness  rather  than  "charity,"  which 
had  always  presented  itself  to  him  as  a  contribution  of  small 
aids,  not  a  neutralizing  of  misfortune.  And  Mr.  Glegg  was 
just  as  fond  of  saving  other  people's  money  as  his  own :  he 
would  have  ridden  as  far  round  to  avoid  a  turnpike  when  his 
expenses  were  to  be  paid  for  him,  as  when  they  were  to  come 
out  of  his  own  pocket,  and  was  quite  zealous  in  trying  to  in- 
duce indifferent  acquaintances  to  adopt  a  cheap  substitute  for 
blacking.  This  inalienable  habit  of  saving,  as  an  end  in  itself, 
belonged  to  the  industrious  men  of  business  of  a  former  gen- 
eration, who  made  their  fortunes  slowly,  almost  as  the  tracking 
of  the  fox  belongs  to  the  harrier  —  it  constituted  them  a 
"  race,"  which  is  nearly  lost  in  these  days  of  rapid  money- 
getting,  when  lavishness  comes  close  on  the  back  of  want.  In 
old-fashioned  times,  an  "  independence  "  was  hardly  ever  made 
without  a  little  miserliness  as  a  condition,  and  you  would  have 
found  that  quality  in  every  provincial  district,  combined  with 
characters  as  various  as  the  fruits  from  which  we  can  extract 
acid.  The  true  Harpagons  were  always  marked  and  excep- 
tional characters :  not  so  the  worthy  tax-payers,  who,  having 
once  pinched  from  real  necessity,  retained  even  in  the  midst  of 
their  comfortable  retirement,  with  their  wall-fruit  and  wine- 
bins,  the  habit  of  regarding  life  as  an  ingenious  process  of 
nibbling  out  one's  livelihood  without  leaving  any  perceptible 
deficit,  and  who  would  have  been  as  immediately  prompted 
to  give  up  a  newly  taxed  luxury  when  they  had  their  clear  five 
hundred  a-year,  as  when  they  had  only  five  hundred  pounds  of 
capital.  Mr.  Glegg  was  one  of  these  men,  found  so  impracti- 
cable by  chancellors  of  the  exchequer ;  and  knowing  this,  you 
will  be  the  better  able  to  understand  why  he  had  not  swerved 
from  the  conviction  that  he  had  made  an  eligible  marriage,  in 
spite  of  the  too  pungent  seasoning  that  nature  had  given  to 
the  eldest  Miss  Dodson's  virtues.  A  man  with  an  affectionate 
disposition,  who  finds  a  wife  to  concur  with  his  fundamental 
idea  of  life,  easily  comes  to  persuade  himself  that  no  other 
woman  would  have  suited  him  so  well,  and  does  a  little  dailv 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  131 

snapping  and  quarrelling  without  any  sense  of  alienation.  Mr. 
Glegg,  being  of  a  reflective  turn,  and  no  longer  occupied  with 
wool,  had  much  wondering  meditation  on  the  peculiar  consti- 
tution of  the  female  mind  as  unfolded  to  him  in  his  domestic 
life  ;  and  yet  he  thought  Mrs.  Glegg's  household  ways  a  model 
for  her  sex ;  it  struck  him  as  a  pitiable  irregularity  in  other 
women  if  they  did  not  roll  up  their  table-napkins  with  the 
same  tightness  and  emphasis  as  Mrs.  Glegg  did,  if  their  pastxy 
had  a  less  leathery  consistence,  and  their  damson  cheese  a  less 
venerable  hardness  than  hers  :  nay,  even  the  peculiar  combi- 
nation of  grocery  and  drug-like  odors  in  Mrs.  Glegg's  private 
cupboard  impressed  him  as  the  only  right  thing  in  the  way 
of  cupboard  smells.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  not  have 
longed  for  the  quarrelling  again,  if  it  had  ceased  for  an  entire 
week ;  and  it  is  certain  that  an  acquiescent  mild  wife  would 
have  left  his  meditations  comparatively  jejune  and  barren  of 
mystery. 

Mr.  Glegg's  unmistakable  kind-heartedness  was  shown  in 
this,  that  it  pained  him  more  to  see  his  wife  at  variance  with 
others  —  even  with  Dolly,  the  servant  —  than  to  be  in  a  state 
of  cavil  with  her  himself ;  and  the  quarrel  between  her  and 
Mr.  Tulliver  vexed  him  so  much  that  it  quite  nullified  the 
pleasure  he  would  otherwise  have  had  in  the  state  of  his  early 
cabbages,  as  he  walked  in  his  garden  before  breakfast  the  next 
morning.  Still  he  went  into  breakfast  with  some  slight  hope 
that,  now  Mrs.  Glegg  had  "  slept  upon  it,"  her  anger  might  be 
subdued  enough  to  give  way  to  her  usually  strong  sense  of 
family  decorum.  She  had  been  used  to  boast  that  there  had 
never  been  any  of  those  deadly  quarrels  among  the  Dodsons 
which  had  disgraced  other  families  ;  that  no  Dodson  had  ever 
been  "  cut  off  with  a  shilling,"  and  no  cousin  of  the  Dodsons 
disowned ;  as,  indeed,  why  should  they  be  ?  for  they  had  no 
cousins  who  had  not  money  out  at  use,  or  some  houses  of  their 
own,  at  the  very  least. 

There  was  one  evening-cloud  which  had  always  disappeared 
from  Mrs.  Glegg's  brow  when  she  sat  at  the  breakfast-table : 
it  was  her  fuzzy  front  of  curls  ;  for  as  she  occupied  herself  in 
household  matters  in  the  morning,  it  would  have  been  a  mere 


132  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

extravagance  to  put  on  anything  so  superfluous  to  the  making 
of  leathery  pastry  as  a  fuzzy  curled  front.  By  half-past  ten 
decorum  demanded  the  front :  until  then  Mrs.  Glegg  could 
economize  it,  and  society  would  never  be  any  the  wiser.  But 
the  absence  of  that  cloud  only  left  it  more  apparent  that  the 
cloud  of  severity  remained  ;  and  Mr.  Glegg,  perceiving  this,  as 
he  sat  down  to  his  milk-porridge,  which  it  was  his  old  frugal 
habit  to  stem  his  morning  hunger  witii,  prudently  resolved  to 
leave  the  first  remark  to  Mrs.  Glegg,  lest,  to  so  delicate  an 
article  as  a  lady's  temper,  the  slightest  touch  should  do  mis- 
chief. People  who  seem  to  enjoy  their  ill-temper  have  a  way 
of  keeping  it  in  fine  condition  by  inflicting  privations  on  them- 
selves. That  was  Mrs.  Glegg's  way :  she  made  her  tea  weaker 
than  usual  this  morning,  and  declined  butter.  It  was  a  hard 
case  that  a  vigorous  mood  for  quarrelling,  so  highly  capable  of 
using  any  opportunity,  should  not  meet  with  a  single  remark 
from  Mr.  Glegg  on  which  to  exercise  itself.  But  by-and-by  it 
appeared  that  his  silence  would  answer  the  purpose,  for  he 
heard  himself  apostrophized  at  last  in  that  tone  peculiar  to 
the  wife  of  one's  bosom. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Glegg !  it 's  a  poor  return  I  get  for  making  you 
the  wife  I  've  made  you  all  these  years.  If  this  is  the  way  I  'm 
to  be  treated,  I  'd  better  ha'  known  it  before  my  poor  father 
died,  and  then,  when  I  'd  wanted  a  home,  I  should  ha'  gone 
elsewhere  —  as  the  choice  was  offered  me." 

Mr.  Glegg  paused  from  his  porridge  and  looked  up  —  not 
with  any  new  amazement,  but  simply  with  that  quiet,  habitual 
wonder  with  which  we  regard  constant  mysteries. 

"Why,  Mrs.  G.,  what  have  I  done  now  ?  " 

"  Done  now,  Mr.  Glegg  ?  done  now?  .  .  .  I  'm  sorry  for  you." 

Not  seeing  his  way  to  any  pertinent  answer,  Mr.  Glegg  re- 
verted to  his  porridge. 

"  There 's  husbands  in  the  world,"  continued  Mrs.  Glegg; 
after  a  pause,  "as  'ud  have  known  how  to  do  sometliing  diifer- 
ent  to  siding  with  everybody  else  against  their  own  wives. 
Perhaps  I  'm  wrong,  and  you  can  teach  me  better.  But  I  've 
allays  heard  as  it 's  the  husband's  place  to  stand  by  the  wife, 
instead  o'  rejoicing  and  triumphing  when  folks  insult  her." 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  133 

"  Now,  what  call  have  you  to  say  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg, 
rather  warmly,  for  though  a  kind  man,  he  was  not  as  meek  as 
Moses.     "When  did  I  rejoice  or  triumph  over  you  ?  " 

'•'  There 's  ways  o'  doing  things  worse  than  speaking  out 
plain,  Mr.  Glegg.  I  'd  sooner  you  'd  tell  me  to  my  face  as  you 
make  light  of  me,  than  try  to  make  out  as  everybody 's  in  the 
right  but  me,  and  come  to  your  breakfast  in  the  morning,  as 
I've  hardly  slept  an  hour  this  night,  and  sulk  at  me  as  if  I  was 
the  dirt  under  your  feet." 

"  Sulk  at  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  angry  facetious- 
ness.  "  You  're  like  a  tipsy  man  as  thinks  everybody  's  had 
too  much  but  himself." 

"  Don't  lower  yourself  with  using  coarse  language  to  me,  Mr. 
Glegg  !  It  makes  you  look  very  small,  though  you  can't  see 
yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  energetic  compassion. 
"  A  man  in  your  place  should  set  an  example,  and  talk  more 
sensible." 

"  Yes ;  but  will  you  listen  to  sense  ?  "  retorted  Mr.  Glegg, 
sharply.  "  The  best  sense  I  can  talk  to  you  is  what  I  said 
last  night  —  as  you  're  i'  the  wrong  to  think  o'  calling  in  your 
money,  when  it 's  safe  enough  if  you  'd  let  it  alone,  all  because 
of  a  bit  of  a  tiff,  and  I  was  in  hopes  you  'd  ha'  altered  your 
mind  this  morning.  But  if  you  'd  like  to  call  it  in,  don't  do  it 
in  a  hurry  now,  and  breed  more  enmity  in  the  family  —  but 
wait  till  there 's  a  pretty  mortgage  to  be  had  without  any 
trouble.  You  'd  have  to  set  the  lawyer  to  work  now  to  find  an 
investment,  and  make  no  end  o'  expense." 

Mrs.  Glegg  felt  there  was  really  something  in  this,  but  she 
tossed  her  head  and  emitted  a  guttural  interjection  to  indicate 
that  her  silence  was  only  an  armistice,  not  a  peace.  And,  in 
fact,  hostilities  soon  broke  out  again. 

"  I  '11  thank  you  for  my  cup  o'  tea,  now,  Mrs.  G.,"  said  Mr. 
Glegg,  seeing  that  she  did  not  proceed  to  give  it  him  as  usual, 
when  he  had  finished  his  porridge.  She  lifted  the  teapot  with 
a  slight  toss  of  the  head,  and  said  — 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  you  '11  thank  me,  Mr.  Glegg.  It 's  little 
thanks  I  get  for  what  I  do  for  folks  i'  this  world.  Though 
there 's  never  a  woman  o'  yo%ir  side  o'  the  famil}',  Mr.  Glegg,  as 


134  THE   MILL   ON    THE   FLOSS. 

is  fit  to  "^tand  up  with  me,  and  I  'd  say  it  if  I  was  on  my  dying 
bed.  Not  but  what  I  've  allays  conducted  myself  civil  to  your 
kin,  and  there  is  n't  one  of  'em  can  say  the  contrary,  though 
my  equils  they  are  n't,  and  nobody  shall  make  me  say  it." 

"  You  'd  better  leave  finding  fault  wi'  my  kin  till  you  've 
left  off  quarrelling  with  your  own,  Mrs.  G.,"  said  Mr.  Glegg, 
with  angry  sarcasm.     ''  I  '11  trouble  you  for  the  milk-jug." 

"  That 's  as  false  a  word  as  ever  you  spoke,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said 
the  lady,  pouring  out  the  milk  with  unusual  profuseness,  as 
much  as  to  say,  if  he  wanted  milk  he  should  have  it  with  a 
vengeance.  "  And  you  know  it 's  false.  I  'm  not  the  woman 
to  quarrel  with  my  own  kin  :  you  may,  for  I  've  known  you 
do  it." 

"Why,  what  did  you  call  it  yesterday,  then,  leaving  your 
sister's  house  in  a  tantrum  ?  " 

"  I  'd  no  quarrel  wi'  my  sister,  Mr.  Glegg,  and  it 's  false  to 
say  it.  Mr.  Tulliver  's  none  o'  my  blood,  and  it  was  him  quar- 
relled with  me,  and  drove  me  out  o'  the  house.  But  perhaps 
you  'd  have  had  me  stay  and  be  swore  at,  Mr.  Glegg ;  perhaps 
you  was  vexed  not  to  hear  more  abuse  and  foul  language 
poured  out  upo'  your  own  wife.  But,  let  me  tell  you,  it 's  your 
disgrace." 

"  Did  ever  anybody  hear  the  like  i'  this  parish  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Glegg,  getting  hot.  "  A  woman,  with  everything  provided  for 
her,  and  allowed  to  keep  her  own  money  the  same  as  if  it  was 
settled  on  her,  and  with  a  gig  new  stuffed  and  lined  at  no  end 
o'  expense,  and  provided  for  when  I  die  beyond  anything  she 
could  expect  ...  to  go  on  i'  this  way,  biting  and  snapping 
like  a  mad  dog !  It 's  beyond  everything,  as  God  A'mighty 
should  ha'  made  women  so."  (These  last  words  were  uttered 
in  a  tone  of  sorrowful  agitation.  Mr.  Glegg  pushed  his  tea 
from  him,  and  tapped  the  table  with  both  his  hands.) 

"Well,  Mr.  Glegg,  if  those  are  your  feelings,  it 's  best  they 
should  be  known,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  taking  off  her  napkin,  and 
folding  it  in  an  excited  manner.  "  But  if  you  talk  o'  my  being 
provided  for  beyond  what  I  could  expect,  I  beg  leave  to  tell 
you  as  I  'd  a  right  to  expect  a  many  things  as  I  don't  find. 
And  as  to  my  being  like  a  mad  dog,  it 's  well  if  you're  not  cried 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  135 

shame  on  by  the  county  for  your  treatment  of  me,  for  it's 
what  I  can't  bear,  and  I  won't  bear  — " 

Here  Mrs.  Glegg's  voice  intimated  that  she  was  going  to  cry, 
and,  breaking  off  from  speech,  she  rang  the  bell  violently. 

"  Sally,"  she  said,  rising  from  her  chair,  and  speaking  in 
rather  a  choked  voice,  "  light  a  fire  up-stairs,  and  x^ut  the  blinds 
down.  Mr.  Glegg,  you  '11  please  to  order  what  you  'd  like  for 
dinner.     I  shall  have  gruel." 

Mrs.  Glegg  walked  across  the  room  to  the  small  book-case, 
and  took  down  Baxter's  '•  Saints'  Everlasting  Eest,"  which  she 
carried  with  her  up-stairs.  It  was  the  book  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  lay  open  before  her  on  special  occasions :  on  wet 
Sunday  mornings,  or  when  she  heard  of  a  death  in  the  family, 
or  when,  as  in  this  case,  her  quarrel  with  Mr.  Glegg  had  been 
set  an  octave  higher  than  usual. 

But  Mrs.  Glegg  carried  something  else  up-stairs  with  her, 
which,  together  with  the  ''  Saints'  Eest "  and  the  gruel,  may 
have  had  some  influence  in  gradually  calming  her  feelings, 
and  making  it  possible  for   her  to  endure  existence  on  the 
ground-floor  shortly  before   tea-time.     This  was,  partl}^,  Mr. 
Glegg's  suggestion,  that  she  would  do  well  to  let  her  five  hun- 
dred lie  still  until  a  good  investment  turned  up  ;  and,  further, 
his  parenthetic  hint  at  his  handsome  provision  for  her  in  case 
of  his  death.     Mr.   Glegg,  like  all  men  of  his  stamp,  was 
extremely  reticent  about  his  will ;   and  Mrs.   Glegg,   in  her 
gloomier  moments,  had  forebodings  that,  like  other  husbands 
of  whom  she  had  heard,  he  might  cherish  the  mean  project  of 
heightening  her  grief  at  his  death  by  leaving  her  poorly  off, 
in  which  case  she  was  firmly  resolved  that  she  would  have 
scarcely  any  weeper  on  her  bonnet,  and  would  cry  no  more 
than  if  he  had  been  a  second  husband.     But  if  he  had  really 
shown  her  any  testamentary  tenderness,  it  would  be  affecting 
to  think  of  him,  poor  man,  when  he  was  gone  ;  and  even  his 
foolish  fuss  about  the  flowers  and  garden-stuff,  and  his  insist- 
ance  on  the  subject  of  snails,  would  be  touching  when  it  was 
once  fairly  at  an  end.     To  survive  Mr.  Glegg,  and  talk  eulo- 
gistically  of  him  as  a  man  who  might  have  his  weaknesses, 
but  who  had  done  the  right  thing  by  her,  notwithstanding  his 


136  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

numerous  poor  relations  —  to  have  sums  of  interest  coming  in 
more  frequently,  and  secrete  it  in  various  corners,  bafEing  to 
the  most  ingenious  of  thieves  (for,  to  Mrs.  Glegg's  mind, 
banks  and  strong-boxes  would  have  nullified  the  pleasure  of 
property  —  she  might  as  well  have  taken  her  food  in  capsules) 
—  finally,  to  be  looked  up  to  by  her  own  family  and  the 
neighborhood,  so  as  no  woman  can  ever  hope  to  be  who  has 
not  the  prseterite  and  present  dignity  comprised  in  being  a 
"  widow  well  left,"  —  all  this  made  a  flattering  and  concilia 
tory  view  of  the  future.  So  that  when  good  Mr.  Glegg,  re 
stored  to  good-humor  by  much  hoeing,  and  moved  by  the 
sight  of  his  wife's  empty  chair,  with  her  knitting  rolled  up  in 
the  corner,  went  up-stairs  to  her,  and  observed  that  the  bell 
had  been  tolling  for  poor  Mr.  Morton,  Mrs.  Glegg  answered 
magnanimously,  quite  as  if  she  had  been  an  uninjured  woman, 
"  Ah !  then,  there  '11  be  a  good  business  for  somebody  to 
take  to." 

Baxter  had  been  open  at  least  eight  hours  by  this  time,  for 
it  was  nearly  five  o'clock ;  and  if  people  are  to  quarrel  often, 
it  follows  as  a  corollary  that  their  quarrels  cannot  be  pro- 
tracted beyond  certain  limits. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glegg  talked  quite  amicably  about  the  Tullivers 
that  evening.  Mr.  Glegg  went  the  length  of  admitting  that 
Tulliver  was  a  sad  man  for  getting  into  hot  water,  and  was 
like  enough  to  run  through  his  property  ;  and  Mrs.  Glegg, 
meeting  this  acknowledgment  half-way,  declared  that  it  was 
beneath  her  to  take  notice  of  such  a  man's  conduct,  and  that, 
for  her  sister's  sake,  she  would  let  him  keep  the  live  hundred 
a  while  longer,  for  when  she  put  it  out  on  a  mortgage  she 
should  only  get  four  per  ceut. 


BOY  AND   GIJRL.  137 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

MK.    TULIilVER    FURTHER    ENTANGLES    THE    SKEIN    OF    LIFE. 

Owing  to  this  new  adjustment  of  Mrs.  Glegg's  thoughts, 
Mrs.  Pullet  found  her  task  of  mediation  the  next  day  sur- 
prisingly easy.  Mrs.  Glegg,  indeed,  checked  her  rather  sharply 
for  thinking  it  would  be  necessary  to  tell  her  elder  sister  what 
was  the  right  mode  of  behavior  in  family  matters.  Mrs. 
Pullet's  argument,  that  it  would  look  ill  in  the  neighborhood 
if  people  should  have  it  in  their  power  to  say  that  there  was  a 
quarrel  in  the  family,  was  particularly  offensive.  If  the  family 
name  never  suffered  except  through  Mrs.  Glegg,  Mrs.  Pullet 
might  lay  her  head  on  her  pillow  in  perfect  confidence. 

"  It 's  not  to  be  expected,  I  suppose,"  observed  Mrs.  Glegg, 
by  way  of  winding  up  the  subject,  "  as  I  shall  go  to  the  mill 
again  before  Bessy  comes  to  see  me,  or  as  I  shall  go  and  fall 
down  o'  my  knees  to  Mr.  Tulliver,  and  ask  his  pardon  for 
showing  him  favors  ;  but  I  shall  bear  no  malice,  and  when 
Mr.  Tulliver  speaks  civil  to  me,  I  '11  speak  civil  to  him.  No- 
body has  any  call  to  tell  me  what 's  becoming." 

Finding  it  unnecessary  to  plead  for  the  Tullivers,  it  was 
natural 'that  aunt  Pullet  should  relax  a  little  in  her  anxiety 
for  them,  and  recur  to  the  annoyance  she  had  suffered  yester- 
day from  the  offspring  of  that  apparently  ill-fated  house.  Mrs. 
Glegg  heard  a  circumstantial  narrative,  to  which  Mr.  Pullet's 
remarkable  memory  furnished  some  items ;  and  while  aunt 
Pullet  pitied  poor  Bessy's  bad  luck  with  her  children,  and  ex- 
pressed a  half-formed  project  of  paying  for  Maggie's  being 
sent  to  a  distant  boarding-school,  which  would  not  prevent  her 
being  so  brown,  but  might  tend  to  subdue  some  other  vices  in 
her,  aunt  Glegg  blamed  Bessy  for  her  weakness,  and  appealed 
to  all  witnesses  who  should  be  living  when  the  Tulliver  chil- 
dren had  turned  out  ill,  that  she,  Mrs.  Glegg,  had  always  said 
how  it  would  be  from  the  very  first,  observing  that  it  was 
wonderful  to  herself  how  all  her  words  came  true. 


138  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Then  I  may  call  and  tell  Bessy  you  'II  bear  no  malice,  and 
everything  be  as  it  was  before  ?  "  Mrs.  Pullet  said,  just  before 
parting. 

"Yes,  you  may,  Sophy,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg;  "you  may  tell 
Mr.  Tulliver,  and  Bessy  too,  as  I  'm  not  going  to  behave  ill 
because  folks  behave  ill  to  me :  I  know  it 's  my  place,  as  the 
eldest,  to  set  an  example  in  every  respect,  and  I  do  it.  Nobody 
can  say  different  of  me,  if  they  "II  keep  to  the  truth." 

Mrs.  Glegg  being  in  this  state  of  satisfaction  in  her  own 
lofty  magnanimity,  I  leave  you  to  judge  what  effect  was  pro- 
duced on  her  by  the  reception  of  a  short  letter  from  Mr,  Tulli- 
ver, that  very  evening,  after  Mrs.  Pullet's  departure,  informing 
her  that  she  need  n't  trouble  her  mind  about  her  iive  hundred 
pounds,  for  it  should  be  paid  back  to  her  in  the  course  of  the 
next  month  at  farthest,  together  with  the  interest  due  thereou 
until  the  time  of  payment.  And  furthermore,  that  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver had  no  wish  to  behave  uncivilly  to  Mrs.  Glegg,  and  she 
was  welcome  to  his  house  whenever  she  liked  to  come,  but  he 
desired  no  favors  from  her,  either  for  himself  or  his  children. 

It  was  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  who  had  hastened  this  catastrophe, 
entirely  throvigh  that  irrepressible  hopefulness  of  hers  which 
led  her  to  expect  that  similar  causes  may  at  any  time  produce 
different  results.  It  had  very  often  occurred  in  her  experience 
that  Mr.  Tulliver  had  done  something  because  other  people  had 
said  he  was  not  able  to  do  it,  or  had  pitied  him  for  his  sup- 
posed inability,  or  in  any  other  way  piqued  his  pride ;  still, 
she  thought  to-day,  if  she  told  him  when  he  came  in  to  tea 
that  sister  Pullet  was  gone  to  try  and  make  everything  up 
with  sister  Glegg,  so  that  he  need  n't  think  about  paying  in 
the  money,  it  would  give  a  cheerful  effect  to  the  meal.  Mr. 
Tulliver  had  never  slackened  in  his  resolve  to  raise  the  money, 
but  now  he  at  once  determined  to  write  a  letter  to  Mrs,  Glegg, 
which  should  cut  off  all  possibility  of  mistake.  Mrs.  Pullet 
gone  to  beg  and  pray  for  him  indeed !  Mr.  Tulliver  did  not 
willingly  write  a  letter,  and  found  the  relation  between  spoken 
and  written  language,  briefly  known  as  spelling,  one  of  tlie 
most  puzzling  things  in  this  puzzling  world.  Nevertheless, 
like  all  fervid  writing,  the  task  was  done  iu  less  time  than 


-.^T  AND   GIRL.  139 

usual,  and  if  the  spelliug  differed  from  Mra.  Glegg's  —  why, 
she  belonged,  like  himself,  to  a  generation  with  whom  spelling 
was  a  matter  of  private  judgment. 

Mrs.  Glegg  did  not  alter  her  will  in  consequence  of  this 
letter,  and  cut  off  the  Tulliver  children  from  their  sixth  and 
seventh  share  in  her  thousand  pounds  ;  for  she  had  her  prin- 
ciples. No  one  must  be  able  to  say  of  her  when  she  was  dead 
that  she  had  not  divided  her  money  with  perfect  fairness 
among  her  own  kin  :  in  the  matter  of  wills,  personal  qualities 
were  subordinate  to  the  great  fundamental  fact  of  blood ;  and 
to  be  determined  in  the  distribution  of  your  property  by 
caprice,  and  not  make  your  legacies  bear  a  direct  ratio  to 
degrees  of  kinship,  was  a  prospective  disgrace  that  would  have 
embittered  her  life.  This  had  always  been  a  principle  in  the 
Dodson  family ;  it  was  one  form  of  that  sense  of  honor  and 
rectitude  which  was  a  proud  tradition  in  such  families  —  a 
tradition  which  has  been  the  salt  of  our  provincial  society. 

But  though  the  letter  could  not  shake  Mrs.  Glegg's  princi- 
ples, it  made  the  family  breach  much  more  difficult  to  mend ; 
and  as  to  the  effect  it  produced  on  Mrs.  Glegg's  opinion  of 
Mr.  Tulliver  —  she  begged  to  be  understood  from  that  time 
forth  that  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  say  about  him :  his 
state  of  mind,  apparently,  was  too  corrupt  for  her  to  contem- 
plate it  for  a  moment.  It  was  not  until  the  evening  before 
Tom  went  to  school,  at  the  beginning  of  August,  that  Mrs. 
Glegg  paid  a  visit  to  her  sister  Tulliver,  sitting  in  her  gig  all 
the  while,  and  showing  her  displeasure  by  markedly  abstaining 
from  all  advice  and  criticism,  for,  as  she  observed  to  her  sister 
Deane,  "  Bessy  must  bear  the  consequence  o'  having  such  a 
husband,  though  I  'm  sorry  for  her,"  and  Mrs.  Deane  agreed 
that  Bessy  was  pitiable. 

That  evening  Tom  observed  to  Maggie,  "  Oh  my !  Maggie, 
aunt  Glegg 's  beginning  to  come  again  ;  I  'm  glad  I  'm  going  to 
school.      You  HI  catch  it  all  ncjw  !  " 

Maggie  was  already  so  full  of  sorrow  at  the  thought  of 
Tom's  going  away  from  her,  that  this  playful  exultation  of 
his  seemed  very  unkind,  and  she  cried  herself  to  sleep  that 
night. 


140  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Mr.  Tulliver's  jn-ompt  procedure  entailed  on  him  further 
promptitude  in  finding  the  convenient  person  who  was  desirous 
of  lending  five  hundred  pounds  on  bond.  "  It  must  be  no 
client  of  Wakem's,"  he  said  to  himself ;  and  yet  at  the  end 
of  a  fortnight  it  turned  out  to  the  contrary  ;  not  because 
Mr.  Tulliver's  will  was  feeble,  but  because  external  fact  was 
stronger.  Wakem's  client  was  the  only  convenient  person  to 
be  found.  Mr.  Tulliver  had  a  destiny  as  well  as  CEdipus,  and 
in  this  case  he  might  plead,  like  CEdipus,  that  his  deed  was 
inflicted  on  him  rather  than  committed  by  him. 


BOOK     T 

SCHOOL-TIME. 


CHAPTER   I. 


tom's  "fikst  half." 


Tom  Tulliver's  sufferings  during  the  first  quarter  he  was 
at  King's  Lorton,  under  the  distinguished  care  of  the  Rev. 
Walter  Stelling,  were  rather  severe.  At  Mr.  Jacobs's  academy, 
life  had  not  presented  itself  to  him  as  a  difficult  problem .  there 
were  plenty  of  fellows  to  play  with,  and  Tom  being  good  at 
all  active  games  —  lighting  especially  —  had  that  precedence 
among  them  which  appeared  to  him  inseparable  from  the 
personality  of  Tom  Tulliver.  Mr.  Jacobs  himself,  familiarly 
known  as  Old  Goggles,  from  his  habit  of  wearing  spectacles, 
imposed  no.  painful  awe ;  and  if  it  was  the  property  of  snuffy 
old  hypocrites  like  him  to  write  like  copperplate  and  surround 
their  signatures  with  arabesques,  to  spell  without  forethought, 
and  to  spout  "  my  name  is  Norval "  without  bungling,  Tom, 
for  his  part,  was  rather  glad  he  was  not  in  danger  of  those 
mean  accomplishments.  He  was  not  going  to  be  a  snuffy 
schoolmaster  —  he ;  but  a  substantial  man,  like  his  father, 
who  used  to  go  hunting  when  he  was  younger,  and  rode  a 
capital  black  mare  —  as  pretty  a  bit  of  horse-flesh  as  ever 
you  saw ;  Tom  had  heard  what  her  points  were  a  hundred 
times.  He  meant  to  go  hunting  too,  and  to  be  generally  re- 
spected. When  people  were  grown  up,  he  considered,  nobody 
inquired  about  their  writing  and  spelling :  when  he  was  a  man, 
he  should  be  master  of  everything,  and  do  just  as  he  liked. 
It  had  been  very  difficult  for  him  to  reconcile  himself  to  the 
idea  that  his  school-time  was  to  be  prolonged,  and  that  he  was 


1.42  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

not  to  be  brought  up  to  liis  father's  business,  which  he  had 
always  thought  extremely  pleasant,  for  it  was  nothing  but 
riding  about,  giving  orders,  and  going  to  market ;  and  he 
thought  that  a  clergyman  would  give  him  a  great  many  Scrip- 
ture lessons,  and  probably  make  him  learn  the  Gospel  and  Epis- 
tle on  a  Sunday  as  well  as  the  Collect.  But  in  the  absence  of 
specific  information,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  imagine  that 
school  and  a  schoolmaster  would  be  something  entirely  differ- 
ent from  the  academy  of  Mr.  Jacobs.  So,  not  to  be  at  a  de- 
ficiency, in  case  of  his  finding  genial  companions,  he  had  taken 
care  to  carry  with  him  a  small  box  of  percussion-caps ;  not 
that  there  was  anything  particular  to  be  done  with  them,  but 
they  would  serve  to  impress  strange  boys  with  a  sense  of  his 
familiarity  with  guns.  Thus  poor  Tom,  though  he  saw  very 
clearly  through  Maggie's  illusions,  was  not  without  illusions  of 
his  own,  which  were  to  be  cruelly  dissipated  by  his  enlarged 
experience  at  King's  Lorton. 

He  had  not  been  there  a  fortnight  before  it  was  evident  to 
him  that  life,  complicated  not  only  with  the  Latin  Grammar 
but  with  a  new  standard  of  English  pronunciation,  was  a  very 
difficult  business,  made  all  the  more  obscure  by  a  thick  mist 
of  bashfulness.  Tom,  as  you  have  observed,  was  never  an  ex- 
ception among  boys  for  ease  of  address ;  but  the  difficulty  of 
enunciating  a  monosyllable  in  reply  to  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling 
was  so  great,  that  he  even  dreaded  to  be  asked  at  table  whether 
he  would  have  more  pudding.  As  to  the  percussion-caps,  he 
had  almost  resolved,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  that  he 
would  throw  them  into  a  neighboring  pond ;  for  not  only  was 
he  the  solitary  pupil,  but  he  began  even  to  have  a  certain  scep- 
ticism about  guns,  and  a  general  sense  that  his  theory  of  life 
was  undermined.  Eor  Mr.  Stelling  thought  nothing  of  guns, 
or  horses  either,  apparently  ;  and  yet  it  was  impossible  for 
Tom  to  despise  Mr.  Stelling  as  he  had  despised  Old  Goggles. 
If  there  were  anjrthing  that  was  not  thoroughly  genuine  about 
Mr.  Stelling,  it  lay  quite  beyond  Tom's  power  to  detect  it :  it 
is  only  by  a  wide  comparison  of  facts  that  the  wisest  full- 
grown  man  can  distinguish  well-rolled  barrels  from  more 
supernal  thunder. 


SCHOOLr-TIME.  143 

Mr.  Stelling  was  a  well-sized,  broad-chested  man,  not  yet 
thirty,  with  flaxen  hair  standing  erect,  and  large  lightish-gray 
eyes,  which  were  always  very  wide  open ;  he  had  a  sonorous 
bass  voice,  and  an  air  of  defiant  self-confidence  inclining  to 
brazenuess.  He  had  entered  on  his  career  with  great  vigor, 
and  intended  to  make  a  considerable  impression  on  his  fellow- 
men.  The  Eev.  Walter  Stelling  was  not  a  man  who  would 
remain  among  the  "  inferior  clergy "  all  his  life.  He  had  a 
true  British  determination  to  push  his  way  in  the  world.  As 
a  schoolmaster,  in  the  first  place ;  for  there  were  capital  master- 
ships of  grammar-schools  to  be  had,  and  Mr.  Stelling  meant 
to  have  one  of  them.  But  as  a  preacher  also,  for  he  meant 
always  to  preach  in  a  striking  manner,  so  as  to  have  his  con- 
gregation swelled  by  admirers  from  neighboring  parishes,  and 
to  produce  a  great  sensation  whenever  he  took  occasional  duty 
for  a  brother  clergyman  of  minor  gifts.  The  style  of  preaching 
he  had  chosen  was  the  extemporaneous,  which  was  held  little 
short  of  the  miraculous  in  rural  parishes  like  King's  Lorton. 
Some  passages  of  Massillon  and  Bourdaloue,  which  he  knew 
by  heart,  were  really  very  effective  when  rolled  out  in  Mr. 
Stelling's  deepest  tones ;  but  as  comparatively  feeble  appeals 
of  his  own  were  delivered  in  the  same  loud  and  impressive 
manner,  they  were  often  thought  quite  as  striking  by  his 
hearers.  Mr.  Stelling's  doctrine  was  of  no  particular  school; 
if  anything,  it  had  a  tinge  of  evangelicalism,  for  that  was 
"  the  telling  thing  "  just  then  in  the  diocese  to  which  King's 
Lorton  belonged.  In  short,  Mr.  Stelling  was  a  man  who  meant 
to  rise  in  his  profession,  and  to  rise  by  merit,  clearly,  since  he 
had  no  interest  beyond  what  might  be  promised  by  a  prob- 
lematic relationship  to  a  great  lawyer  who  had  not  yet  become 
Lord  Chancellor.  A  clergyman  who  has  such  vigorous  inten- 
tions naturally  gets  a  little  into  debt  at  starting ;  it  is  not  to 
be  expected  that  he  will  live  in  the  meagre  style  of  a  man  who 
means  to  be  a  poor  curate  all  his  life,  and  if  the  few  hundreds 
Mr.  Timpson  advanced  towards  his  daughter's  fortune  did  not 
suffice  for  the  purchase  of  handsome  furniture,  together  with 
a  stock  of  wine,  a  grand  piano,  and  the  laying  out  of  a  supe- 
rior flower-garden,  it  followed  in  the  most  rigorous  manner. 


144  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

either  that  these  things  must  be  procured  by  some  other 
means,  or  else  that  the  Eev.  Mr.  Stelling  must  go  without 
them  —  which  last  alternative  would  be  an  absurd  procrastina- 
tion of  the  fruits  of  success,  where  success  was  certain.  Mr. 
Stelling  was  so  broad-chested  and  resolute  that  he  felt  equal 
to  anything ;  he  would  become  celebrated  b}^  shaking  the  con- 
sciences of  his  hearers,  and  he  would  by-and-by  edit  a  Greek 
play,  and  invent  several  new  readings.  He  had  not  yet  se- 
lected the  play,  for  having  been  married  little  more  than  two 
years,  his  leisure  time  had  been  much  occupied  with  attentions 
to  Mrs.  Stelling;  but  he  had  told  that  fine  woman  what  he 
meant  to  do  some  day,  and  she  felt  great  confidence  in  her 
husband,  as  a  man  who  understood  everything  of  that  sort. 

But  the  immediate  step  to  future  success  was  to  bring  on 
Tom  Tulliver  during  this  first  half-year ;  for,  by  a  singular 
coincidence,  there  had  been  some  negotiation  concerning 
another  pupil  from  the  same  neighborhood,  and  it  might 
further  a  decision  in  Mr.  Stelling's  favor,  if  it  were  under- 
stood that  young  Tulliver,  who,  Mr.  Stelling  observed  in 
conjugal  privacy,  was  rather  a  rough  cub,  had  made  prodi- 
gious progress  in  a  short  time.  It  was  on  this  ground  that 
he  was  severe  with  Tom  about  his  lessons :  he  was  clearly  a 
boy  whose  powers  would  never  be  developed  through  the 
medium  of  the  Latin  Grammar,  without  the  application  of 
some  sternness.  Not  that  Mr.  Stelling  was  a  harsh-tempered 
or  unkind  man  —  quite  the  contrary :  he  was  jocose  with  Tom 
at  table,  and  corrected  his  provincialisms  and  his  deportment 
in  the  most  playful  manner ;  but  poor  Tom  was  only  the  more 
cowed  and  confused  by  this  double  novelty,  for  he  had  never 
been  used  to  jokes  at  all  like  Mr.  Stelling's  ;  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  had  a  painful  sense  that  he  was  all  wrong 
somehow.  When  Mr.  Stelling  said,  as  the  roast-beef  was 
being  uncovered,  "Now,  Tulliver!  which  would  you  rather 
decline,  roast-beef  or  the  Latin  for  it  ?  "  —  Tom,  to  whom  in 
his  coolest  moments  a  pun  would  have  been  a  hard  nut,  was 
thrown  into  a  state  of  embarrassed  alarm  that  made  every- 
thing dim  to  him  except  the  feeling  that  he  would  rather  not 
have   anything   to   do   with   Latin ;   of   course   he   answered, 


SCHOOL  TIME.  145 

"Roast-beef,"  whereupon  there  followed  much  laughter  and 
some  practical  joking  with  the  plates,  from  which  Tom 
gathered  that  he  had  in  some  mysterious  way  refused  beef, 
and,  in  fact,  made  himself  appear  "sb  silly."  If  he  could 
have  seen  a  fellow-pupil  undergo  these  painful  operations  and 
survive  them  in  good  spirits,  he  might  sooner  have  taken  them 
as  a  matter  of  course.  But  there  are  two  expensive  forms  of 
education,  either  of  which  a  parent  may  procure  for  his  son 
by  sending  him  as  solitary  pupil  to  a  clergyman  :  one  is,  the 
enjoyment  of  the  reverend  gentleman's  undivided  neglect ;  the 
other  is,  the  endurance  of  the  reverend  gentleman's  undivided 
attention.  It  was  the  latter  privilege  for  which  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver  paid  a  high  price  in  Tom's  initiatory  months  at  King's 
Lorton. 

That  respectable  miller  and  maltster  had  left  Tom  behind, 
and  driven  homeward  in  a  state  of  great  mental  satisfaction. 
He  considered  that  it  was  a  happy  moment  for  him  when  he 
had  thought  of  asking  Eiley's  advice  about  a  tutor  for  Tom. 
Mr.  Stelling's  eyes  were  so  wide  open,  and  he  talked  in  such 
an  off-hand,  matter-of-fact  way  —  answering  every  difficult 
slow  remark  of  Mr.  Tulliver's  with,  "  I  see,  my  good  sir,  I 
see ; "  "  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure  ;  "  "  You  want  your  son  to  be  a 
man  who  will  make  his  way  in  the  world,"  —  that  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver  was  delighted  to  find  in  him  a  clergyman  whose  knowl- 
edge was  so  applicable  to  the  every-day  affairs  of  this  life. 
Except  Counsellor  AYylde,  whom  he  had  heard  at  the  last 
sessions,  Mr.  Tulliver  thought  the  Rev.  Mr.  Stelling  was  the 
shrewdest  fellow  he  had  ever  met  with  —  not  unlike  Wylde, 
in  fact :  he  had  the  same  way  of  sticking  his  thumbs  in  the 
armholes  of  his  waistcoat.  Mr.  Tulliver  was  not  by  any 
means  an  exception  in  mistaking  brazenness  for  shrewdness : 
most  laymen  thought  Stelling  shrewd,  and  a  man  of  remark- 
able powers  generally  :  it  was  chiefly  by  his  clerical  brethren 
that  he  was  considered  rather  a  dull  fellow.  But  he  told  Mr. 
Tulliver  several  stories  about  "  Swing  "  and  incendiarism,  and 
asked  his  advice  about  feeding  pigs  in  so  thoroughly  secular 
and  judicious  a  manner,  with  so  much  polished  glibness  of 
tongue,  that  the  miller  thought,  here  was  the  very  thing  he 

VOL.    II.  10 


146  THE   MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

wanted  for  Tom.  He  had  no  doubt  this  first-rate  man  was 
acquainted  with  every  branch  of  information,  and  knew  ex- 
actly what  Tom  must  learn  in  order  to  become  a  match  for 
the  lawyers  —  which  poor  Mr.  Tulliver  himself  did  not  know, 
and  so  was  necessarily  thrown  for  self-direction  on  this  wide 
kind  of  inference.  It  is  hardly  fair  to  laugh  at  him,  for  I 
have  known  much  more  highly  instructed  persons  than  he 
make  inferences  quite  as  wide,  and  not  at  all  wiser. 

As  for  Mrs.  Tulliver  —  finding  that  Mrs.  Stelling's  views  as 
to  the  airing  of  linen  and  the  frequent  recurrence  of  hunger  in 
a  growing  boy  entirely  coincided  with  her  own ;  moreover, 
that  Mrs.  Stelliug,  though  so  young  a  woman,  and  only  antici- 
pating her  second  confinement,  had  gone  through  very  nearly 
the  same  experience  as  herself  with  regard  to  the  behavior 
and  fundamental  character  of  the  monthly  nurse  —  she  ex- 
pressed great  contentment  to  her  husband,  when  they  drove 
away,  at  leaving  Tom  with  a  woman  who,  in  spite  of  her 
youth,  seemed  quite  sensible  and  motherly,  and  asked  advice 
as  prettily  as  could  be. 

"  They  must  be  very  well  off,  though,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
"for  everything's  as  nice  as  can  be  all  over  the  house,  and  that 
watered  silk  she  had  on  cost  a  pretty  penny.  Sister  Pullet 
has  got  one  like  it." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "he's  got  some  income  besides  the 
curacy,  I  reckon.  Perhaps  her  father  allows  'em  something. 
There  's  Tom  'ull  be  another  hundred  to  him,  and  not  much 
trouble  either,  by  his  own  account :  he  sa3^s  teaching  comes 
natural  to  him.  That 's  wonderful,  now,"  added  Mr.  Tulliver, 
turning  his  head  on  one  side,  and  giving  his  horse  a  meditative 
tickling  on  the  flank. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  teaching  came  naturally  to  Mr. 
Stelling,  that  he  set  about  it  with  that  uniformity  of  method 
and  independence  of  circumstances,  which  distinguish  the  ac- 
tions of  animals  understood  to  be  under  the  immediate  teach- 
ing of  nature.  Mr.  Broderip's  amiable  beaver,  as  that  charming 
naturalist  tells  us,  busied  himself  as  earnestly  in  constructing 
a  dam,  in  a  room  up  three  pair  of  stairs  in  London,  as  if  he 
had  been  laying  his  foundation  in  a  stream  or  lake  in  Upper 


SCHOOL-TIME.  147 

Canada.  It  was  "  Binny's  "  fuuctiou  to  build  :  the  absence 
of  water  or  of  possible  progeny  was  an  accident  for  which  he 
was  not  accountable.  With  the  same  unerring  instinct  Mr. 
Stelling  set  to  work  at  his  natural  method  of  instilling  the 
Eton  Grammar  and  Euclid  into  the  mind  of  Tom  Tulliver. 
This,  he  considered,  was  the  only  basis  of  solid  instruction  : 
all  other  means  of  education  were  mere  charlatanism,  and  could 
produce  nothing  better  than  smatterers.  Fixed  on  this  firm 
basis,  a  man  might  observe  the  display  of  various  or  special 
knowledge  made  by  irregularly  educated  people  with  a  pitying 
smile  :  all  that  sort  of  thing  was  very  well,  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble these  people  could  form  sound  opinions.  In  holding  this 
conviction  Mr.  Stelling  was  not  biassed,  as  some  tutors  have 
been,  by  the  excessive  accuracy  or  extent  of  his  own  scholar- 
ship ;  and  as  to  his  views  about  Euclid,  no  opinion  could  have 
been  freer  from  personal  partialit}^  Mr.  Stelling  was  very  far 
from  being  led  astray  by  enthusiasm,  either  religious  or  intel- 
lectual ;  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  no  secret  belief  that  every- 
thing was  humbug.  He  thought  religion  was  a  very  excellent 
thing,  and  Aristotle  a  great  authority,  and  deaneries  and  pre- 
bends useful  institutions,  and  Great  Britain  the  providential 
bulwark  of  Protestantism,  and  faith  in  the  unseen  a  great 
support  to  afflicted  minds :  he  believed  in  all  these  things,  as 
a  Swiss  hotel-keeper  believes  in  the  beauty  of  the  scenery 
around  liim,  and  in  the  pleasure  it  gives  to  artistic  visitors. 
And  in  the  same  way  Mr.  Stelling  believed  in  his  method  of 
education  ;  he  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  doing  the  very  best 
thing  for  Mr.  Tulliver's  boy.  Of  course,  when  the  miller 
talked  of  ''  mapping"  and  '^ summing"  in  a  vague  and  diffident 
manner,  Mr.  Stelling  had  set  his  mind  at  rest  by  an  assurance 
that  he  understood  what  was  wanted ;  for  how  was  it  possible 
the  good  man  could  form  any  reasonable  judgment  about  the 
matter  ?  Mr.  Stelling's  duty  was  to  teach  the  lad  in  the  only 
right  way  —  indeed,  he  knew  no  other  :  he  had  not  wasted  his 
time  in  the  acquirement  of  anything  abnormal. 

He  very  soon  set  down  poor  Tom  as  a  thoroughly  stupid  lad ; 
for  though  by  hard  labor  he  could  get  particular  declensions 
into  his  brain,  anything  so  abstract  as  the  relation  between 


148  THE   MILL   ON    THE   FLOSS. 

cases  and  terminations  could  by  no  means  get  such  a  lodg- 
ment there  as  to  enable  him  to  recognize  a  chance  genitive  or 
dative.  This  struck  Mr.  Stelling  as  something  more  than 
natural  stupidity :  he  suspected  obstinacy,  or  at  any  rate,  in- 
difference ;  and  lectured  Tom  severely  on  his  want  of  thorough 
application.  "  You  feel  no  interest  in  what  you  're  doing,  sir," 
Mr.  Stelling  would  say,  and  the  reproach  was  painfully  true. 
Tom  had  never  found  any  difficulty  in  discerning  a  pointer  from 
a  setter,  when  once  he  had  been  told  the  distinction,  and  his 
perceptive  powers  were  not  at  all  deficient.  I  fancy  they  were 
quite  as  strong  as  those  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Stelling ;  for  Tom 
could  predict  with  accuracy  what  number  of  horses  were  can- 
tering behind  him,  he  could  throw  a  stone  right  into  the  cen- 
tre of  a  given  ripple,  he  could  guess  to  a  fraction  how  many 
lengths  of  his  stick  it  would  take  to  reach  across  the  play- 
ground, and  could  draw  almost  perfect  squares  on  his  slate 
without  any  measurement.  But  Mr.  Stelling  took  no  note  of 
these  things :  he  only  observed  that  Tom's  faculties  failed  him 
before  the  abstractions  hideously  symbolized  to  him  in  the 
pages  of  the  Eton  Grammar,  and  that  he  was  in  a  state  border- 
ing on  idiocy  with  regard  to  the  demonstration  that  two  given 
triangles  must  be  equal  —  though  he  could  discern  with  great 
promptitude  and  certainty  the  fact  that  they  ivere  equal. 
Whence  Mr.  Stelling  concluded  that  Tom's  brain  being  pecu- 
liarly impervious  to  etymology  and  demonstrations,  was  pe- 
culiarly in  need  of  being  ploughed  and  harrowed  by  these  patent 
implements :  it  was  his  favorite  metaphor,  that  the  classics 
and  geometry  constituted  that  culture  of  tlie  mind  which  pre- 
pared it  for  the  reception  of  any  subsequent  crop.  I  say 
nothing  against  Mr.  Stelling's  theory  :  if  we  are  to  have  one 
regimen  for  all  minds,  his  seems  to  me  as  good  as  any  other.  I 
only  know  it  turned  out  as  uncomfortably  for  Tom  Tulliver  as  if 
he  had  been  plied  with  cheese  in  order  to  remedy  a  gastric  weak- 
ness which  prevented  him  from  digesting  it.  It  is  astonishing 
what  a  different  result  one  gets  by  changing  the  metaphor  ! 
Once  call  the  brain  an  intellectual  stomach,  and  one's  ingenious 
conception  of  the  classics  and  geometry  as  ploughs  and  harrows 
seems  to  settle  nothing.     But  then  it  is  open  to  some  one  else 


\ 


SCHOOL-TIME.  149 

to  follow  great  authorities,  and  call  the  mind  a  sheet  of  white 
paper  or  a  mirror,  in  which  case  one's  knowledge  of  the  diges- 
tive process  becomes  quite  irrelevant.  It  was  doubtless  an 
ingenious  idea  to  call  the  camel  the  ship  of  the  desert,  but  it 
would  hardly  lead  one  far  in  training  that  useful  beast.  0 
Aristotle !  if  you  had  had  the  advantage  of  being  *'  the  fresh- 
est modern"  instead  of  the  greatest  ancient,  would  you  not 
have  mingled  your  praise  of  metaphorical  speech,  as  a  sign 
of  high  intelligence,  with  a  lamentation  that  intelligence  so 
rarely  shows  itself  in  speech  without  metaphor,  —  that  we  can 
so  seldom  declare  what  a  thing  is,  except  by  saying  it  is  some- 
thing else  ? 

Tom  Tulliver,  being  abundant  in  no  form  of  speech,  did  not 
use  any  metaphor  to  declare  his  views  as  to  the  nature  of 
Latin  :  he  never  called  it  an  instrument  of  torture  ;  and  it  was 
not  until  he  had  got  on  some  way  in  the  next  half-year,  and 
in  the  Delectus,  that  he  was  advanced  enough  to  call  it  a 
"  bore  "  and  "  beastly  stuff."  At  present,  in  relation  to  this 
demand  that  he  should  learn  Latin  declensions  and  conjuga- 
tions, Tom  was  m  a  state  of  as  blank  unimagiuativeness  con- 
cerning  the  cause  and  tendency  of  his  sufferings,  as  if  he  had 
been  an  innocent  shrewmouse  imprisoned  in  the  split  trunk  of 
an  ash-tree  in  order  to  cure  lameness  in  cattle.  It  is  doubtless 
almost  incredible  to  instructed  minds  of  the  present  day  that 
a  boy  of  twelve,  not  belonging  strictly  to  "  the  masses,"  who 
are  now  understood  to  have  the  monopoly  of  mental  darkness, 
should  have  had  no  distinct  idea  how  there  came  to  be  such  a 
thing  as  Latin  on  this  earth :  yet  so  it  was  with  Tom.  It 
would  have  taken  a  long  while  to  make  conceivable  to  him  that 
there  ever  existed  a  people  who  bought  and  sold  sheep  and 
oxen,  and  transacted  the  every-day  affairs  of  life,  through  the 
medium  of  this  language,  and  still  longer  to  make  him  under- 
stand why  he  should  be  called  upon  to  learn  it,  when  its  con- 
nection with  those  affairs  had  become  entirely  latent.  So  far 
as  Tom  had  gained  any  acquaintance  with  the  Romans  at  Mr. 
Jacobs's  academy,  his  knowledge  was  strictly  correct,  but  it 
went  no  farther  than  the  fact  that  they  were  •'  in  the  New 
Testament ; "  and  Mr.  Stelling  was  not  the  man  to  enfeeble 


150  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

and  emasculate  his  pupil's  mind  by  simplifying  and  explaining, 
or  to  reduce  the  tonic  effect  of  etymology  by  mixing  it  with 
smattering,  extraneous  information,  such  as  is  given  to  girls. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  under  this  vigorous  treatment  Tom 
became  more  like  a  girl  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life 
before.  He  had  a  large  share  of  pride,  which  had  hitherto 
found  itself  very  comfortable  in  the  world,  despising  Old 
Goggles,  and  reposing  in  the  sense  of  unquestioned  rights  ; 
but  now  this  same  pride  met  with  nothing  but  bruises  and 
crushings.  Tom  was  too  clear-sighted  not  to  be  aware  that 
Mr.  Stelling's  standard  of  things  was  quite  different,  was 
certainly  something  higher  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  than  that 
of  the  people  he  had  been  living  amongst,  and  that,  brought 
in  contact  with  it,  he,  Tom  Tulliver,  appeared  uncouth  and 
stupid  :  he  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  this,  and  his  pride 
got  into  an  uneasy  condition  which  quite  nullified  his  boyish 
self-satisfaction,  and  gave  him  something  of  the  girl's  suscep- 
tibility. He  was  of  a  very  firm,  not  to  say  obstinate  disposi- 
tiou,  but  there  was  no  brute-like  rebellion  and  recklessness  in 
his  nature  :  the  human  sensibilities  predominated,  and  if  it 
had  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  enable  himself  to  show 
some  quickness  at  his  lessons,  and  so  acquire  Mr.  Stelling's 
approbation,  by  standing  on  one  leg  for  an  inconvenient  length 
of  time,  or  rapping  his  head  moderately  against  the  wall,  or 
any  voluntary  action  of  that  sort,  he  would  certainly  have 
tried  it.  But  no  —  Tom  had  never  heard  that  these  measures 
would  brighten  the  understanding,  or  strengthen  the  verbal 
memory  ;  and  he  was  not  given  to  hypothesis  and  experiment. 
It  did  occur  to  him  that  he  could  perhaps  get  some  help  by 
praying  for  it ;  but  as  the  prayers  he  said  every  evening  were 
forms  learned  by  heart,  he  rather  shrank  from  the  novelty  and 
irregularity  of  introducing  an  extempore  passage  on  a  topic  of 
petition  for  which  he  was  not  aware  of  any  precedent.  But 
one  day,  when  he  had  broken  down,  for  the  fifth  time,  in  the 
supines  of  the  third  conjugation,  and  Mr.  Stelling,  convinced 
that  this  must  be  carelessness,  since  it  transcended  the  bounds 
of  possible  stupidity,  had  lectured  him  very  seriously,  pointing 
out  that  if  he  failed  to  seize  the  present  golden  opportunity 


SCHOOL-TIME.  151 

of  learning  supines,  he  would  have  to  regret  it  when  he  be- 
came a  man,  —  Tom,  more  miserable  than  usual,  determined 
to  try  his  sole  resource  ;  and  that  evening,  after  his  usual 
form  of  prayer  for  his  parents  and  "  little  sister "  (he  had 
begun  to  pray  for  Maggie  when  she  was  a  baby),  and  that  he 
might  be  able  always  to  keep  God's  commandments,  he  added, 
in  the  same  low  whisper,  '■'  and  please  to  make  me  always 
remember  my  Latin."  He  paused  a  little  to  consider  how  he 
should  pray  about  Euclid  —  -whether  he  should  ask  to  see 
what  it  meant,  or  whether  there  was  any  other  mental  state 
which  would  be  more  applicable  to  the  case.  But  at  last  he 
added  —  "  And  make  Mr.  Stelling  say  I  shan't  do  Euclid  any 
more.     Amen." 

The  fact  that  he  got  through  his  supines  Avithout  mistake 
the  next  day,  encouraged  him  to  persevere  in  this  appendix 
to  his   prayers,  and   neutralized   any   scepticism  that  might 
have  arisen  from  Mr.  Stelling's  continued  demand  for  Euclid. 
But  his  faith  broke  down  under  the  apparent  absence  of  all 
help  when  he  got  into  the  irregular  verbs.     It  seemed  clear 
that  Tom's  despair  under  the  caprices  of  the  present  tense  did 
not  constitute  a  nodus  worthy  of  interference,  and  since  this 
was  the  climax  of  his  difficulties,  where  was  the  use  of  pray- 
ing for  help  any  longer  ?     He  made  up  his  mind  to  this  con- 
clusion in  one  of  his  dull,  lonely  evenings,  which  he  spent  in 
the  study,  preparing  his  lessons  for  the  morrow.     His  eyes 
were  apt  to  get  dim  over  the  page  —  though  he  hated  crying, 
and  was  a.shamed  of  it :  he  could  n't  help  thinking  with  some 
affection  even  of  Spouncer,  whom  he  used  to  fight  and  quarrel 
with ;  he  would  have  felt  at  home  with  Spouncer,  and  in  a 
condition  of  superiority.     And  then  the  mill,  and  the  river, 
and  Yap  pricking  up  his  ears,  ready  to  obey  the  least  sign 
when  Tom  said,  "  Hoigh ! "  would  all  come  before  him  in  a 
sort  of  calenture,  when  his  fingers  played  absently  in  his 
pocket  with  his  great  knife  and  his  coil  of  whipcord,  and 
other  relics  of  the  past.     Tom,  as  I  said,  had  never  been  so 
much  like  a  girl  in  his  life  before,  and  at  that  epoch  of  irregu- 
lar verbs  his  spirit  was  further  depressed  by  a  new  means  of 
mental  development  which  had  been  thought  of  for  him  out 


152  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

of  school  hours.  Mrs.  Stelling  had  lately  had  her  second 
baby,  and  as  nothing  could  be  more  salutary  for  a  boy  than  to 
feel  himself  useful,  Mrs,  Stelling  considered  she  was  doing 
Tom  a  service  by  setting  him  to  watch  the  little  cherub  Laura 
while  the  nurse  was  occupied  with  the  sickly  baby.  It  was 
quite  a  pretty  employment  for  Tom  to  take  little  Laura  out 
in  the  sunniest  hour  of  the  autumn  day  —  it  would  help  to 
make  him  feel  that  Lorton  Parsonage  was  a  home  for  him, 
and  that  he  was  one  of  the  family.  The  little  cherub  Laura, 
not  being  an  accomplished  walker  at  present,  had  a  ribbon 
fastened  round  her  waist,  by  which  Tom  held  her  as  if  she 
had  been  a  little  dog  during  the  minutes  in  which  she  chose 
to  walk ;  but  as  these  were  rare,  he  was  for  the  most  part 
carrying  this  fine  child  round  and  round  the  garden,  within 
sight  of  Mrs.  Stelling's  window  —  according  to  orders.  If 
any  one  considers  this  unfair  and  even  oppressive  towards 
Tom,  I  beg  him  to  consider  that  there  are  feminine  virtues 
which  are  with  difficulty  combined,  even  if  they  are  not  in- 
compatible. When  the  wife  of  a  poor  curate  contrives,  under 
all  her  disadvantages,  to  dress  extremely  well,  and  to  have  a 
style  of  coiffure  which  requires  that  her  nurse  shall  occasion- 
ally officiate  as  lady's-maid,  —  when,  moreover,  her  dinner- 
parties and  her  drawing-room  show  that  effort  at  elegance  and 
completeness  of  appointment  to  which  ordinary  women  might 
imagine  a  large  income  necessary,  it  would  be  unreasonable 
to  expect  of  her  that  she  should  employ  a  second  nurse,  or 
even  act  as  a  nurse  herself.  Mr.  Stelling  knew  better :  he 
saw  that  his  wife  did  wonders  already,  and  was  proud  of  her  : 
it  was  certainly  not  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  young 
Tulliver's  gait  to  carry  a  heavy  child,  but  he  had  plenty  of 
exercise  in  long  walks  with  himself,  and  next  half-year  Mr. 
Stelling  would  see  about  having  a  drilling-master.  Among  the 
many  means  whereby  Mr.  Stelling  intended  to  be  more  fortu- 
nate than  the  bulk  of  his  fellow-men,  he  had  entirely  given 
up  that  of  having  his  own  way  in  his  own  house.  What 
then  ?  he  had  mai-ried  "  as  kind  a  little  soul  as  ever  breathed," 
according  to  Mr.  Riley,  who  had  been  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
Stelling's  blond  ringlets  and  smiling  demeanor  throughout  her 


SCHOOL-TIME.  153 

maiden  life,  and  on  the  strength  of  that  knowledge  would 
have  been  ready  any  day  to  pronounce  that  whatever  domestic 
differences  might  arise  in  her  married  life  must  be  entirely 
Mr.  Stelling's  fault. 

If  Tom  had  had  a  worse  disposition,  he  would  certainly 
have  hated  the  little  cherub  Laura,  but  he  was  too  kind- 
hearted  a  lad  for  that  —  there  was  too  much  in  him  of  the 
fibre  that  turns  to  true  manliness,  and  to  protecting  pity  for 
the  weak.  I  am  afraid  he  hated  Mrs.  Stelling,  and  con- 
tracted a  lasting  dislike  to  pale  blond  ringlets  and  broad 
plaits,  as  directly  associated  with  haughtiness  of  manner,  and 
a  frequent  reference  to  other  people's  "  duty."  But  he 
could  n't  help  playing  with  little  Laura,  and  liking  to  amuse 
her ;  he  even  sacrificed  his  percussion-caps  for  her  sake,  in 
despair  of  their  ever  serving  a  greater  purpose  —  thinking  the 
small  flash  and  bang  would  delight  her,  and  thereby  drawing 
down  on  Jiimself  a  rebuke  from  Mrs.  Stelling  for  teaching  her 
child  to  play  with  fire.  Laura  was  a  sort  of  playfellow  — 
and  oh  how  Tom  longed  for  playfellows !  In  his  secret  heart 
he  yearned  to  have  Maggie  with  him,  and  was  almost  ready 
to  dote  on  her  exasperating  acts  of  forgetfulness ;  though, 
when  he  was  at  home,  he  always  represented  it  as  a  great 
favor  on  his  part  to  let  Maggie  trot  by  his  side  on  his  pleasure 
excursions. 

And  before  this  dreary  half-year  was  ended,  Maggie  actually 
came.  Mrs.  Stelling  had  given  a  general  invitation  for  the 
little  girl  to  come  and  stay  with  her  brother ;  so  when  Mr. 
Tulliver  drove  over  to  King's  Lorton  late  in  October,  Maggie 
came  too,  with  the  sense  that  she  was  taking  a  great  journey, 
and  beginning  to  see  the  world.  It  was  Mr.  Tulliver's  first 
visit  to  see  Tom,  for  the  lad  must  learn  not  to  think  too  much 
about  home. 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  he  said  to  Tom,  when  Mr.  Stelling  had 
left  the  room  to  announce  the  arrival  to  his  wife,  and  Maggie 
had  begun  to  kiss  Tom  freely,  ''  you  look  rarely  !  School 
agrees  with  you." 

Tom  wished  he  had  looked  rather  ill. 

"I   don't   think   I  a7n   well,  father,"    said   Tom;    "I  wish 


154  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

you  'd  ask  Mr.  Stelling  not  to  let  me  do  Euclid  —  it  brings  on 
the  toothache,  I  think." 

(The  toothache  was  the  only  malady  to  which  Tom  had 
ever  been  subject.) 

"  Euclid,  my  lad  —  why,  what 's  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know:  it's  definitions,  and  axioms,  and  tri- 
angles, and  things.  It 's  a  book  I ' ve  got  to  learn  in  —  there  's 
no  sense  in  it." 

"  Go,  go  ! "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  reprovingly,  "  you  must  n't  say 
so.  You  must  learn  what  your  master  tells  you.  He  knows 
what  it 's  right  for  you  to  learn." 

"/'ZZ  help  you  now,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  little  air  of 
patronizing  consolation.  "  I  'm  come  to  stay  ever  so  long,  if 
Mrs.  Stelling  asks  me.  I  've  brought  my  box  and  my  pina- 
fores, have  n't  I,  father  ?  " 

"  You  help  me,  you  silly  little  thing  !  "  said  Tom,  in  such 
high  spirits  at  this  announcement  that  he  quite  enjoyed  the 
idea  of  confounding  Maggie  by  showing  her  a  page  of  Euclid. 
"  I  should  like  to  see  yon  doing  one  of  my  lessons  !  Why, 
I  learn  Latin  too  !  Girls  never  learn  such  things.  They  're 
too  silly." 

"  I  know  what  Latin  is  very  well,"  said  Maggie,  confidently. 
"Latin's  a  language.  There  are  Latin  words  in  the  Dic- 
tionary.    There  's  bonus,  a  gift." 

"  Now,  you  're  just  wrong  there.  Miss  Maggie  !  "  said  Tom, 
secretly  astonished.  "  You  think  you  're  very  wise  !  But 
''-  bonus '  means  '  good,'  as  it  happens  —  bonus,  bona,  bonum." 

"  Well,  th?vt  's  no  reason  why  it  should  n't  mean  '  gift,' " 
said  Maggie,  stoutly.  "  It  may  mean  several  things  —  almost 
every  word  does.  There 's  '  lawn,'  —  it  means  the  grass-plot, 
as  well  as  the  stuff  pocket-handkerchiefs  are  made  of." 

"  Well  done,  little  'un,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  laughing,  while 
Tom  felt  rather  disgusted  with  Maggie's  knowingness,  though 
beyond  measure  cheerful  at  the  thought  that  she  was  going  to 
stay  with  him.  Her  conceit  would  soon  be  overawed  by  the 
actual  inspection  of  his  books. 

Mrs.  Stelling,  in  her  pressing  invitation,  did  not  mention  a 
longer  time  than  a  week  for  Maggie's  stay  ;  but  Mr.  Stelling, 


SCHOOL-TIME.  155 

who  took  her  between  his  knees,  and  asked  her  where  she 
stole  her  dark  eyes  from,  insisted  that  she  must  stay  a  fort- 
night. Maggie  thought  Mr.  Stelling  was  a  charming  man,  and 
Mr.  Tulliver  was  quite  proud  to  leave  his  little  wench  where 
she  would  have  an  opportunity  of  showing  her  cleverness  to 
appreciating  strangers.  So  it  was  agreed  that  she  should  not 
be  fetched  home  till  the  end  of  the  fortnight. 

"Now,  then,  come  with  me  into  the  study,  Maggie,"  said 
Tom,  as  their  father  drove  away.  "What  do  you  shake  and 
toss  your  head  now  for,  you  silly  ? "  he  continued ;  for 
though  her  hair  was  now  under  a  new  dispensation,  and  was 
brushed  smoothly  behind  her  ears,  she  seemed  still  in  imagi- 
nation to  be  tossing  it  out  of  her  eyes.  "  It  makes  you  look  as 
if  you  were  crazy." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Maggie,  impatiently.  *•'  Don't 
tease  me,  Tom.  Oh,  what  books  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  saw 
the  bookcases  in  the  study.  "  How  I  should  like  to  have  as 
many  books  as  that !  " 

"  Why,  you  could  n't  read  one  of  'em,"  said  Tom,  trium- 
phantly.    "They're  all  Latin." 

"  No,  they  are  n't,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  can  read  the  back  of 
this  .  .  .  '  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Eoman 
Empire ' " 

"  Well,  what  does  that  mean  ?  You  don't  know,"  said  Tom, 
wagging  his  head. 

"  But  I  could  soon  find  out,"  said  Maggie,  scornfully. 

"  Why,  how  ?  " 

"  1  should  look  inside,  and  see  what  it  was  about." 

"You'd  better  not.  Miss  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  seeing  her 
hand  on  the  volume.  "  Mr.  Stelling  lets  nobody  touch  his 
books  without  leave,  and  I  shall  catch  it,  if  you  take  it  out." 

"  Oh,  very  well !  Let  me  see  all  yoicr  books,  then,"  said 
Maggie,  turning  to  throw  her  arms  round  Tom's  neck,  and  rub 
his  cheek  with  her  small  round  nose, 

Tom,  in  the  gladness  of  his  heart  at  having  dear  old  Maggie 
to  dispute  with  and  crow  over  again,  seized  her  round  the 
waist,  and  began  to  jump  with  her  round  the  large  library 
table.     Away  they  jumped  with  more  and  more  vigor,  till 


156  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

Maggie's  hair  flew  from  behind  her  ears,  and  twirled  about 
like  an  animated  mop.  But  the  revolutions  round  the  table 
became  more  and  more  irregular  in  their  sweep,  till  at  last 
reaching  Mr.  Stelling's  reading-stand,  they  sent  it  thundering 
down  with  its  heavy  lexicons  to  the  floor.  Happily  it  was 
the  ground-floor,  and  the  study  was  a  one-storied  wing  to  the 
house,  so  that  the  downfall  made  no  alarming  resonance, 
though  Tom  stood  dizzy  and  aghast  for  a  few  minutes,  dread- 
ing the  appearance  of  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Maggie,"  said  Tom  at  last,  lifting  up  the  stand, 
"  we  must  keep  quiet  here,  you  know.  If  we  break  anything, 
Mrs.  Stelling  '11  make  us  cry  peccavi." 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  said  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  it 's  the  Latin  for  a  good  scolding,"  said  Tom,  not 
without  some  pride  in  his  knowledge. 

"  Is  she  a  cross  woman  ?  "  said  Maggie. 

"  I  believe  you  !  "  said  Tom,  with  an  emphatic  nod. 

"I  think  all  women  are  crosser  than  men,"  said  Maggie. 
"  Aunt  Glegg  's  a  great  deal  crosser  than  uncle  Glegg,  and 
mother  scolds  me  more  than  father  does." 

"  Well,  you  HI  be  a  woman  some  day,"  said  Tom,  "  so  you 
need  n't  talk." 

"  But  I  shall  be  a  clever  woman,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  toss. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,  and  a  nasty  conceited  thing.  Everybody  '11 
hate  you." 

"  But  you  ought  n't  to  hate  me,  Tom  :  it  '11  be  very  wicked 
of  you,  for  I  shall  be  your  sister." 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  're  a  nasty  disagreeable  thing,  I  shall  hate 
you." 

"  Oh  but,  Tom,  you  won't !  I  shan't  be  disagreeable.  I 
shall  be  very  good  to  you  —  and  I  shall  be  good  to  everybody. 
You  won't  hate  me  really,  will  you,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bother  !  never  mind  !  Come,  it 's  time  for  me  to  learn 
my  lessons.  See  here  !  what  I  've  got  to  do,"  said  Tom,  draw- 
ing Maggie  towards  him  and  showing  her  his  theorem,  while 
she  pushed  her  hair  behind  her  ears,  and  prepared  herself  to 
prove  her  capability  of  helping  him  in  Euclid.  She  began  to 
read  with  full  confidence  in  her  own  powers,  but  presently, 


SCHOOL-TIME.  157 

becoming  quite  bewildered,  her  face  flushed  with  irritation. 
It  was  unavoidable  —  she  must  confess  her  incompetency,  and 
she  was  not  fond  of  humiliation. 

"It's  nonsense  !  "  she  said,  "and  very  ugly  stuff  —  nobody 
need  want  to  make  it  out." 

"  Ah,  there  now,  Miss  Maggie ! "  said  Tom,  drawing  the 
book  away,  and  wagging  his  head  at  he^,  "  you  see  you  're  not 
so  clever  as  you  thought  you  were." 

"  Oh,"  said  Maggie,  pouting,  "  I  dare  say  I  could  make  it  out, 
if  I  'd  learned  what  goes  before,  as  you  have." 

"But  that's  what  you  just  couldn't,  Miss  Wisdom,"  said 
Tom.  "  For  it 's  all  the  harder  when  you  know  what  goes 
before :  for  then  you  've  got  to  say  what  definition  3.  is,  and 
what  axiom  V.  is.  But  get  along  with  you  now  :  I  must  go  on 
with  this.  Here 's  the  Latin  Grammar.  See  what  you  can 
make  of  that." 

Maggie  found  the  Latin  Grammar  quite  soothing  after  her 
mathematical  mortification  ;  for  she  delighted  in  new  words, 
and  quickly  found  that  there  was  an  English  Key  at  the  end, 
which  would  make  her  very  wise  about  Latin,  at  slight  ex- 
pense. She  presently  made  up  her  mind  to  skip  the  rulea 
in  the  Syntax  —  the  examples  became  so  absorbing.  These 
mysterious  sentences,  snatched  from  an  unknown  context, — 
like  strange  horns  of  beasts,  and  leaves  of  unknown  plants, 
brought  from  some  far-off  region,  —  gave  boundless  scope  to 
her  imagination,  and  were  all  the  more  fascinating  because 
they  were  in  a  peculiar  tongue  of  their  own,  which  she  could 
learn  to  interpret.  It  was  really  very  interesting  —  the  Latin 
Grammar  that  Tom  had  said  no  girls  could  learn  :  and  she 
was  proud  because  she  found  it  interesting.  The  most  frag- 
mentary examples  were  her  favorites.  Mors  omnibus  est  com- 
munis would  have  been  jejune,  only  she  liked  to  know  the 
Latin  ;  but  the  fortunate  gentleman  whom  every  one  congratu- 
lated because  he  had  a  son  "  endowed  with  such  a  disj)osition  " 
afforded  her  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  conjecture,  and  she  was 
quite  lost  in  the  "thick  grove  penetrable  by  no  star,"  when 
Tom  called  out  — 

"  Now,  then,  Magsie,  give  us  the  Grammar ! " 


158  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  it 's  such  a  pretty  book ! "  she  said,  as  she 
jumped  out  of  the  large  arm-chair  to  give  it  him  ;  "  it 's  much 
prettier  than  the  Dictionary.  I  could  learn  Latin  very  soon. 
I  don't  think  it's  at  all  hard." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  've  been  doing,"  said  Tom,  "you've 
been  reading  the  English  at  the  end.  Any  donkey  can  do 
that." 

Tom  seized  the  book  and  opened  it  with  a  determined  and 
business-like  air,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  had  a  lesson  to 
learn  which  no  donkeys  would  find  themselves  equal  to. 
Maggie,  rather  piqued,  turned  to  the  bookcases  to  amuse  her- 
self with  puzzling  out  the  titles. 

Presently  Tom  called  to  her:  "Here,  Magsie,  come  and 
hear  if  I  can  say  this.  Stand  at  that  end  of  the  table,  where 
Mr.  Stelling  sits  when  he  hears  me." 

Maggie  obeyed,  and  took  the  open  book. 

"  Where  do  you  begin,  Tom  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  begin  at  ' Appellativa  arbonim,''  because  I  say  all 
over  again  what  I've  been  learning  this  week." 

Tom  sailed  along  pretty  well  for  three  lines ;  and  Maggie 
was  beginning  to  forget  her  office  of  prompter  in  speculating 
as  to  what  mas  could  mean,  which  came  twice  over,  when  he 
stuck  fast  at  Sunt  etiam  volucrum. 

"  Don't  tell  me,  Maggie ;  Sunt  etiam  vohicrum  .  .  .  Sunt 
etiam  volucrum  .  .  .  ut  ostrea,  cetus  — " 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  opening  her  mouth  and  shaking  her 
head. 

"  Sunt  etiam  vohicrum,''  said  Tom,  very  slowly,  as  if  the 
next  words  might  be  expected  to  come  sooner  when  he  gave 
them  this  strong  hint  that  they  were  waited  for. 

"  C,  e,  u,"  said  Maggie,  getting  impatient. 

"Oh,  I  know  —  hold  your  tongue,"  said  Tom.  "  Ceu  passer, 
hirundo ;  Ferarum  .  .  .  ferarum  — "  Tom  took  his  pencil 
and  made  several  hard  dots  with  it  on  his  book-cover  .  .  . 
"ferarum  —  " 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  "  what  a  time  you 
are!     Ut  —  " 

"  Ut,  ostrea  —  '* 


JEL 


SCHOOL-TTME.  159 

"Ko.  no,"  said  Maggie,  ^'ut,  tigris  — " 

"  Oh  yes,  now  I  can  do,"  said  Tom ;  "  it  was  tigris,  vulpes, 
I  'd  forgotten :  ut  tigris,  tndpes  ;  et  Piscium." 

With  some  further  stammering  and  repetition,  Tom  got 
through  the  next  few  lines. 

"  Now  then,"  he  said,  "  the  next  is  what  I  've  just  learnt  for 
to-morrow.     Give  me  hold  of  the  book  a  minute." 

After  some  whispered  gabbling,  assisted  by  the  beating  of 
his  fist  on  the  table,  Tom  returned  the  book. 

''  Masctda  nomina  in  a,"  he  began. 

"  No,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  "■  that  does  n't  come  next.  It 's 
Nomen  non  creskens  genittivo — " 

"  Creskens  genittivo ! "  exclaimed  Tom,  with  a  derisive 
laugh,  for  Tom  had  learned  this  omitted  passage  for  his  yes- 
terday's lesson,  and  a  young  gentleman  does  not  require  an 
intimate  or  extensive  acquaintance  with  Latin  before  he  can 
feel  the  pitiable  absurdity  of  a  false  quantity.  ^^  Creskens 
genittivo !     What  a  little  silly  you  are,  Maggie ! " 

"Well,  you  needn't  laugh,  Tom,  for  you  didn't  remember 
it  at  all.     I  'm  sure  it 's  spelt  so  ;  how  was  I  to  know  ?  " 

"  Phee-e-e-h  !  I  told  you  girls  could  n't  learn  Latin.  It 's 
Nomen  non  crescens  genitivo." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Maggie,  pouting.  "  I  can  say  that 
as  well  as  you  can.  And  you  don't  mind  your  stops.  For  you 
ought  to  stop  twice  as  long  at  a  semicolon  as  you  do  at  a 
comma,  and  you  make  the  longest  stops  where  there  ought  to 
be  no  stop  at  all." 

"  Oh,  well,  don't  chatter.     Let  me  go  on." 

They  were  presently  fetched  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing in  the  drawing-room,  and  Maggie  became  so  animated  with 
Mr.  Stelling,  who,  she  felt  sure,  admired  her  cleverness,  that 
Tom  was  rather  amazed  and  alarmed  at  her  audacity.  But 
she  was  suddenly  subdued  by  Mr.  Stelling's  alluding  to  a  little 
girl  of  whom  he  had  heard  that  she  once  ran  away  to  the 
gypsies. 

"  What  a  very  odd  little  girl  that  must  be  ! "  said  Mrs.  Stel- 
ling, meaning  to  be  playful  —  but  a  playfulness  that  turned 
on  her  supposed  oddity  was  not  at  all  to  Maggie's  taste.     She 


160  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

feared  that  Mr.  Stelling,  after  all,  did  not  think  much  of  her, 
and  went  to  bed  in  rather  low  spirits.  Mrs.  Stelling,  she  felt, 
looked  at  her  as  if  she  thought  her  hair  was  very  ugly  because 
it  hung  down  straight  behind. 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  very  happy  fortnight  to  Maggie  this 
visit  to  Tom.  She  was  allowed  to  be  in  the  study  while  he 
had  his  lessons,  and  in  her  various  readings  got  very  deep  into 
the  examples  in  the  Latin  Grammar.  The  astronomer  who 
hated  women  generally,  caused  her  so  much  puzzling  specula- 
tion that  she  one  day  asked  Mr.  Stelling  if  all  astronomers 
hated  women,  or  whether  it  was  only  this  particular  astrono- 
mer.    But  forestalling  his  answer,  she  said  — 

"  I  suppose  it 's  all  astronomers :  because,  you  know,  they 
live  up  in  high  towers,  and  if  the  women  came  there,  they 
might  talk  and  hinder  them  from  looking  at  the  stars." 

Mr.  Stelling  liked  her  prattle  immensely,  and  they  were  on 
the  best  terms.  She  told  Tom  she  should  like  to  go  to  school 
to  Mr  Stelling,  as  he  did,  and  learn  just  the  same  things.  She 
knew  she  could  do  Euclid,  for  she  had  looked  into  it  again, 
and  she  saw  what  ABC  meant :  they  were  the  names  of  the 
lines. 

"  1  'm  sure  you  could  n't  do  it,  now,"  said  Tom ;  "  and  I  '11 
just  ask  Mr.  Stelling  if  you  could." 

"  I  don't  mind,"  said  the  little  conceited  minx.  "  I  '11  ask 
him  myself." 

"  Mr.  Stelling,"  she  said,  that  same  evening  when  they  were 
in  the  drawing-room,  "  could  n't  I  do  Euclid,  and  all  Tom's 
lessons,  if  you  were  to  teach  me  instead  of  him  ?  " 

"  No  ;  you  could  n't,"  said  Tom,  indignantly.  '^  Girls  can't 
do  Euclid :  can  they,  sir  ?  " 

''  They  can  pick  up  a  little  of  everything,  I  dare  say,"  said 
Mr.  Stelling.  "  They  've  a  great  deal  of  superficial  cleverness ; 
but  they  could  n't  go  far  into  anything.  They  're  quick  and 
shallow." 

Tom,  delighted  with  this  verdict,  telegraphed  his  triumph 
by  wagging  his  head  at  Maggie,  behind  Mr.  Stelling's  chair. 
As  for  Maggie,  she  had  hardly  ever  been  so  mortified.  She 
had  been  so  proud  to  be  called  "  quick  "  all  hei  little  life,  and 


SCHOOL-TIME.  161 

now  it  appeared  that  this  quickness  was  the  brand  of  inferior- 
ity.    It  would  have  been  better  to  be  slow,  like  Tom. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  Miss  Maggie  !  "  said  Tom,  when  they  were  alone ; 
"you  see  it  ^s  not  such  a  line  thing  to  be  quick.  You  '11  never 
go  far  into  anything,  you  know." 

And  Maggie  was  so  oppressed  by  this  dreadful  destiny  that 
she  had  no  spirit  for  a  retort. 

But  when  this  small  apparatus  of  shallow  quickness  was 
fetched  away  in  the  gig  by  Luke,  and  the  study  was  once  mor& 
quite  lonely  for  Tom,  he  missed  her  grievously.  He  had 
really  been  brighter,  and  had  got  through  his  lessons  better, 
since  she  had  been  there ;  and  she  had  asked  Mr.  Stalling  so 
many  questions  about  the  Roman  Empire,  and  whether  there 
really  ever  was  a  man  who  said,  in  Latin,  "  I  would  not  buy  it 
for  a  farthing  or  a  rotten  nut,"  or  whether  that  had  only  been 
turned  into  Latin,  that  Tom  had  actually  come  to  a  dim  under- 
standing of  the  fact  that  there  had  once  been  people  upon  the 
earth  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  know  Latin  without  learn- 
ing it  through  the  medium  of  the  Eton  Grammar.  This  lumi- 
nous idea  was  a  great  addition  to  his  historical  acquirements 
during  this  half-year,  which  were  otherwise  confined  to  an 
epitomized  history  of  the  Jews. 

But  the  dreary  half-year  did  come  to  an  end.  How  glad 
Tom  was  to  see  the  last  yellow  leaves  fluttering  before  the 
cold  wind !  The  dark  afternoons,  and  the  first  December 
snow,  seemed  to  him  far  livelier  than  the  August  sunshine  ; 
and  that  he  might  make  himself  the  surer  about  the  flight  of 
the  days  that  were  carrying  him  homeward,  he  stuck  twenty- 
one  sticks  deep  in  a  corner  of  the  garden,  when  he  was  three 
weeks  from  the  holidays,  and  pulled  one  up  every  day  with  a 
great  wrench,  throwing  it  to  a  distance  with  a  vigor  of  will 
which  would  have  carried  it  to  limbo,  if  it  had  been  in  the 
nature  of  sticks  to  travel  so  far. 

But  it  was  worth  purchasing,  even  at  the  heavy  price  of  the 
Latin  Grammar  —  the  happiness  of  seeing  the  bright  light  in 
the  parlor  at  home,  as  the  gig  passed  noiselessly  over  the  snow- 
covered  bridge  ;  the  happiness  of  passing  from  the  cold  air 
to  the  warmth  and  the  kisses  and  the  smiles  of  that  familiar 

TOL.   II.  11 


le^  THE   MILL   ON    THE   FLOSS. 

hearth,  where  the  pattern  of  the  rug  and  the  grate  and  the 
fire-irons  were  "  first  ideas  "  that  it  was  no  more  possible  to 
criticise  than  the  solidity  and  extension  of  matter.  There  is 
no  sense  of  ease  like  the  ease  we  felt  in  those  scenes  where 
we  were  born,  where  objects  became  dear  to  us  before  we  had 
known  the  labor  of  choice,  and  where  the  outer  world  seemed 
only  an  extension  of  our  own  personality :  we  accepted  and 
loved  it  as  we  accepted  our  own  sense  of  existence  and  our 
own  limbs.  Very  commonplace,  even  ugly,  that  furniture  of 
our  early  home  might  look  if  it  were  put  up  to  auction;  an 
improved  taste  in  upholstery  scorns  it ;  and  is  not  the  striving 
after  something  better  and  better  in  our  surroundings,  the 
grand  characteristic  that  distinguishes  man  from  the  brute  — 
or,  to  satisfy  a  scrupulous  accuracy  of  definition,  that  distin- 
guishes the  British  man  from  the  foreign  brute  ?  But  heaven 
knows  where  that  striving  might  lead  us,  if  our  affections  had 
not  a  trick  of  twining  round  those  old  inferior  things  —  if  the 
loves  and  sanctities  of  our  life  had  no  deep  immovable  roots 
m  memory.  One's  delight  in  an  elderberry  bush  overhanging 
the  confused  leafage  of  a  hedgerow  bank,  as  a  more  gladdening 
sight  than  the  finest  cistus  or  fuchsia  spreading  itself  on  the 
softest  undulating  turf,  is  an  entirely  unjustifiable  preference 
to  a  nursery-gardener,  or  to  any  of  those  severely  regulated 
minds  who  are  free  from  the  weakness  of  any  attachment  that 
does  not  rest  on  a  demonstrable  superiority  of  qualities.  And 
there  is  no  better  reason  for  preferring  this  elderberry  bush 
than  that  it  stirs  an  early  memory — that  it  is  no  novelty  in 
my  life,  speaking  to  me  merely  throvigh  my  present  sensibili- 
ties to  form  and  color,  but  the  long  companion  of  my  existence, 
that  wove  itself  into  my  joys  when  joys  were  vivid. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  163 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE   CHRISTMAS    HOLIDAYS. 

Fine  old  Christmas,  with  the  snowy  hair  and  ruddy  face, 
had  done  his  duty  that  year  in  the  noblest  fashion,  and  had 
set  off  his  rich  gifts  of  warmth  and  color  with  all  the  heighten- 
ing contrast  of  frost  and  snow. 

Snow  lay  on  the  croft  and  river-bank  in  undulations  softer 
than  the  limbs  of  infancy ;  it  lay  with  the  neatliest  finished 
border  on  every  sloping  roof,  making  the  dark-red  gables  stand 
out  with  a  new  depth  of  color;  it  weighed  heavily  on  the 
laurels  and  fir-trees,  till  it  fell  from  them  with  a  shuddering 
sound ;  it  clothed  the  rough  turnip-field  with  whiteness,  and 
made  the  sheep  look  like  dark  blotches ;  the  gates  were  all 
blocked  up  with  the  sloping  drifts,  and  here  and  there  a  dis- 
regarded four-footed  beast  stood  as  if  petrified  "in  unrecum- 
bent  sadness  ; "  there  was  no  gleam,  no  shadow,  for  the 
heavens,  too,  were  one  still,  pale  cloud  —  no  sound  or  motion 
in  anything  but  the  dark  river  that  flowed  and  moaned  like 
an  unresting  sorrow.  But  old  Christmas  smiled  as  he  laid 
this  cruel-seeming  spell  on  the  outdoor  world,  for  he  meant 
to  light  up  home  with  new  brightness,  to  deepen  all  the  rich- 
ness of  indoor  color,  and  give  a  keener  edge  of  delight  to  the 
warm  fragrance  of  food ;  he  meant  to  prepare  a  sweet  im- 
prisonment that  would  strengthen  the  primitive  fellowship 
of  kindred,  and  make  the  sunshine  of  familiar  human  faces 
as  welcome  as  the  hidden  day-star.  His  kindness  fell  but 
hardly  on  the  homeless  —  fell  but  hardly  on  the  homes  where 
the  hearth  was  not  very  warm,  and  where  the  food  had  little 
fragrance  ;  where  the  human  faces  had  no  sunshine  in  them, 
but  rather  the  leaden,  blank-eyed  gaze  of  unexpectant  want. 
But  the  fine  old  season  meant  well ;  and  if  he  has  not  learnt 
the  secret  how  to  bless  men  impartially,  it  is  because  his  father 
Time,  with  ever-unrelenting  purpose,  still  hides  that  secret  in 
his  own  mighty,  slow-beating  heart. 


164;  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

And  yet  this  Christmas  day,  in  spite  of  Tom's  fresh  delight 
in  home,  was  not,  he  thought,  somehow  or  other,  quite  so 
happy  as  it  had  always  been  before.  The  red  berries  were 
just  as  abundant  on  the  holly,  and  he  and  Maggie  had  dressed 
all  the  windows  and  mantel-pieces  and  picture-frames  on  Christ- 
mas eve  with  as  much  taste  as  ever,  wedding  the  thick-set 
scarlet  clusters  with  branches  of  the  black  berried  ivy.  There 
had  been  singing  under  the  windows  after  midnight  —  super- 
natural singing,  Maggie  always  felt,  in  spite  of  Tom's  con- 
temptuous insistence  that  the  singers  were  old  Patch,  the 
parish  clerk,  and  the  rest  of  the  church  choir :  she  trembled 
with  awe  when  their  carolling  broke  in  upon  her  dreams,  and 
the  image  of  men  in  fustian  clothes  was  always  thrust  away 
by  the  vision  of  angels  resting  on  the  parted  cloud.  The  mid- 
night chant  had  helped  as  usual  to  lift  the  morning  above  the 
level  of  common  days  ;  and  then  there  was  the  smell  of  hot 
toast  and  ale  from  the  kitchen,  at  the  breakfast-hour ;  the 
favorite  anthem,  the  green  boughs,  and  the  short  sermon, 
gave  the  appropriate  festal  character  to  the  church-going; 
and  aunt  and  uncle  Moss,  with  all  their  seven  children,  were 
looking  like  so  many  reflectors  of  the  bright  parlor-fire,  when 
the  church-goers  came  back,  stamping  the  snow  from  their 
feet.  The  plum -pudding  was  of  the  same  handsome  round- 
ness as  ever,  and  came  in  with  the  symbolic  blue  flames  around 
it,  as  if  it  had  been  heroically  snatched  from  the  nether  fires 
into  which  it  had  been  thrown  by  dyspeptic  Puritans  ;  the 
dessert  was  as  splendid  as  ever,  with  its  golden  oranges,  brown 
nuts,  and  the  crystalline  light  and  dark  of  apple-jelly  and 
damson  cheese :  in  all  these  things  Christmas  was  as  it  had 
always  been  since  Tom  could  remember ;  it  was  only  distin- 
guished, if  by  anything,  by  superior  sliding  and  snowballs. 

Christmas  was  cheery,  but  not  so  Mr.  Tulliver.  He  was 
irate  and  defiant,  and  Tom,  though  he  espoused  his  father's 
quarrels  and  shared  his  father's  sense  of  injury,  was  not  with- 
out some  of  the  feeling  that  oppressed  Maggio  when  Mr. 
Tulliver  got  louder  and  more  angry  in  narration  and  assertion 
with  the  increased  leisure  of  dessert.  The  attention  that  Tom 
might  have  concentrated  on  his  nuts  and  wine  was  distracted 


SCHOOL-TIME.  165 

by  a  sense  that  there  were  rascally  enemies  in  the  world,  and 
that  the  business  of  grown-up  life  could  hardly  be  conducted 
without  a  good  deal  of  quarrelling.  Now  Tom  was  not  fond 
of  quarrelling,  unless  it  could  soon  be  put  an  end  to  by  a  fair 
stand-up  fight  with  an  adversary  whom  he  had  every  chance 
of  thrashing ;  and  his  father's  irritable  talk  made  him  uncom- 
fortable, though  he  never  accounted  to  himself  for  the  feeling, 
or  conceived  the  notion  that  his  father-  was  faulty  in  this 
respect. 

The  particular  embodiment  of  the  evil  principle  now  excit- 
ing Mr.  Tulliver's  determined  resistance  was  Mr.  Pivart,  who, 
having  lands  higher  up  the  Kipple,  was  taking  measures  for 
their  irrigation,  which  either  were,  or  would  be,  or  were  bound 
to  be  (on  the  principle  that  water  was  water),  an  infringement 
on  Mr.  Tulliver's  legitimate  share  of  water-power.  Dix,  who 
had  a  mill  on  the  stream,  was  a  feeble  auxiliary  of  Old  Harry 
compared  with  Pivart.  Dix  had  been  brought  to  his  senses 
by  arbitration,  and  Wakem's  advice  had  not  carried  him  far ; 
no ;  Dix,  Mr.  Tulliver  considered,  had  been  as  good  as  nowhere 
in  point  of  law ;  and  in  the  intensity  of  his  indignation  against 
Pivart,  his  contempt  for  a  baffled  adversary  like  Dix  began  to 
wear  the  air  of  a  friendly  attachment.  He  had  no  male  audi- 
ence to-day  except  Mr.  Moss,  who  knew  nothing,  as  he  said,  of 
the  "  natur'  o'  mills,"  and  could  only  assent  to  Mr.  Tulliver's 
arguments  on  the  a  priori  ground  of  family  relationship  and 
monetary  obligation ;  but  Mr.  Tulliver  did  not  talk  with  the 
futile  intention  of  convincing  his  audience  —  he  talked  to  re- 
lieve himself;  while  good  Mr.  Moss  made  strong  efforts  to  keep 
his  eyes  wide  open,  in  spite  of  the  sleepiness  which  an  unusually 
good  dinner  produced  in  his  hard-worked  frame.  Mrs.  Moss, 
more  alive  to  the  subject,  and  interested  in  everything  that 
affected  her  brother,  listened  and  put  in  a  word  as  often  as 
maternal  preoccupations  allowed. 

"  Why,  Pivart 's  a  new  name  hereabout,  brother,  is  n't  it  ?  " 
she  said :  "  he  did  n't  own  the  land  in  father's  time,  nor  yours 
either,  before  I  was  married." 

"  New  name  ?  Yes  —  I  should  think  it  is  sl  new  name," 
said  Mr.  Tulliver,  with  angry  emphasis.    '•  Dorlcote  Mill 's  been 


166  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

in  our  family  a  hundred  year  and  better,  and  nobody  ever 
heard  of  a  Pivart  meddling  with  the  river,  till  this  fellow 
came  and  bought  Bincome's  farm  out  of  hand,  before  anybody 
else  could  so  much  as  say  '  snap.'  But  I  '11  Pivart  him  !  " 
added  Mr.  Tulliver,  lifting  his  glass  with  a  sense  that  he  had 
defined  his  resolution  in  an  unmistakable  manner. 

"  You  won't  be  forced  to  go  to  law  with  him,  I  hope,  brother?  " 
said  Mrs.  Moss,  with  some  anxiety. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  be  forced  to ;  but  I  know  what 
I  shall  force  him  to,  with  his  dykes  and  erigations,  if  there  's 
any  law  to  be  brought  to  bear  o'  the  right  side.  I  know  well 
enough  who  's  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  he  's  got  Wakem  to  back 
him  and  egg  him  on.  I  know  Wakem  tells  him  the  law  can't 
touch  him  for  it,  but  there  's  folks  can  handle  the  law  besides 
Wakem.  It  takes  a  big  raskil  to  beat  him ;  but  there 's  bigger 
to  be  found,  as  know  more  o'  th'  ins  and  outs  o'  the  law,  else 
how  came  Wakem  to  lose  Brumley's  suit  for  him  ?  " 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  a  strictly  honest  man,  and  proud  of  being 
honest,  but  he  considered  that  in  law  the  ends  of  justice  could 
only  be  achieved  by  employing  a  stronger  knave  to  frustrate 
a  weaker.  Law  was  a  sort  of  cock-fight,  in  which  it  was  the 
business  of  injured  honesty  to  get  a  game  bird  with  the  best 
pluck  and  the  strongest  spurs. 

"  Gore  's  no  fool  —  you  need  n't  tell  me  that,"  he  observed 
presently,  in  a  pugnacious  tone,  as  if  poor  Gritty  had  been 
urging  that  lawyer's  capabilities ;  "  but,  you  see,  he  is  n't  up 
to  the  law  as  Wakem  is.  And  water 's  a  very  particular  thing 
—  you  can't  pick  it  up  with  a  pitchfork.  That's  why  it's  been 
nuts  to  Old  Harry  and  the  lawyers.  It 's  plain  enough  what 's 
the  rights  and  the  wrongs  of  water,  if  you  look  at  it  straight- 
forrard  j  for  a  river 's  a  river,  and  if  you  've  got  a  mill,  you 
must  have  water  to  turn  it ;  and  it 's  no  use  telling  me,  Pivart's 
erigation  and  nonsense  won't  stop  my  wheel :  I  know  what 
belongs  to  water  better  than  that.  Talk  to  me  o'  what  th' 
engineers  say !  I  say  it 's  common  sense,  as  Pivart's  dykes 
must  do  me  an  injury.  But  if  that 's  their  engineering,  I  '11  put 
Tom  to  it  by-and-by,  and  he  shall  see  if  he  can't  find  a  bit  more 
S^nse  in  th'  engineering  business  than  what  that  comes  to." 


SCHOOL-TIME.  167 

Tom,  looking  round  with  some  anxiety  at  this  announce- 
ment of  his  prospects,  unthinkingly  withdrew  a  small  rattle 
he  was  amusing  Baby  Moss  with,  whereupon  she,  being  a  baby 
that  knew  her  own  mind  with  remarkable  clearness,  instan- 
taneously expressed  her  sentiments  in  a  piercing  yell,  and  was 
not  to  be  appeased  even  by  the  restoration  of  the  rattle,  feel- 
ing apparently  that  the  original  wrong  of  having  it  taken  from 
her  remained  in  all  its  force.  Mrs.  Moss  hurried  away  with 
her  into  another  room,  and  expressed  to  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who 
accompanied  her,  the  conviction  that  the  dear  child  had  good 
reasons  for  crying ;  implying  that  if  it  was  supposed  to  be  the 
rattle  that  baby  clamored  for,  she  was  a  misunderstood  baby. 
The  thoroughly  justifiable  yell  being  quieted,  Mrs.  Moss  looked 
at  her  sister-in-law  and  said  — 

"I  'm  sorry  to  see  brother  so  put  out  about  this  water  work." 

"  It 's  your  brother's  way,  Mrs.  Moss ;  I  'd  never  anything 
o'  that  sort  before  I  was  married,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a 
half-implied  reproach.  She  always  spoke  of  her  husband  as 
"your  brother"  to  Mrs.  Moss  in  any  case  when  his  line  of 
conduct  was  not  matter  of  pure  admiration.  Amiable  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  who  was  never  angry  in  her  life,  had  yet  her  mild 
share  of  that  spirit  without  which  she  could  hardly  have  been 
at  once  a  Dodson  and  a  woman.  Being  always  on  the  defen- 
sive towards  her  own  sisters,  it  was  natural  that  she  should 
be  keenly  conscious  of  her  superiority,  even  as  the  weakest 
Dodson,  over  a  husband's  sister,  who,  besides  being  poorly  off, 
and  inclined  to  "  hang  on  "  her  brother,  had  the  good-natured 
submissiveness  of  a  large,  easy-tempered,  untidy,  prolific  wo- 
man, with  affection  enough  in  her  not  only  for  her  own  hus- 
band and  abundant  children,  but  for  any  number  of  collateral 
relations. 

"  I  hope  and  pray  he  won't  go  to  law,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  "  for 
there 's  never  any  knowing  where  that  '11  end.  And  the  right 
does  n't  allays  win.  This  Mr.  Pivart  's  a  rich  man,  by  what  I 
can  make  out,  and  the  rich  mostly  get  things  their  own  way." 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  stroking  her  dress  down, 
"  I  've  seen  what  riches  are  in  my  own  family  ;  for  my  sisters 
have  got  husbands  as  can  afford  to  do  pretty  much  what  they 


168  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

like.  But  I  think  sometimes  I  shall  be  drove  off  my  head  with 
the  talk  about  this  law  and  erigation ;  and  my  sisters  lay  all 
the  fault  to  me,  for  they  don't  know  what  it  is  to  marry  a  man 
like  your  brother  —  how  should  they  ?  Sister  Pullet  has  her 
.  own  way  from  morning  till  night." 

"  Well/'  said  Mrs.  Moss,  "  I  don't  think  I  sliould  like  my 
husband  if  he  hadn't  got  any  wits  of  his  own,  and  1  had  to  find 
jhead-piece  for  him.  It 's  a  deal  easier  to  do  what  pleases  one's 
husband,  than  to  be  puzzling  what  else  one  should  do." 

''If  people  come  to  talk  o'  doing  what  pleases  their  hus- 
bands," said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a  faint  imitation  of  her  sister 
Glegg,  "I'm  sure  your  brother  might  have  waited  a  long  while 
before  he  'd  have  found  a  wife  that  'ud  have  let  him  have  his 
say  in  everything,  as  I  do.  It 's  nothing  but  law  and  erigation 
now,  from  when  we  first  get  up  in  the  morning  till  we  go  to 
bed  at  night ;  and  I  never  contradict  him ;  I  only  say  — '  Well, 
Mr.  Tulliver,  do  as  you  like ;  but  whativer  you  do,  don't  go  to 
law.' " 

Mrs.  Tulliver,  as  we  have  seen,  was  not  without  influence 
over  her  husband.  No  woman  is  ;  she  can  always  incline  him 
to  do  either  what  she  wishes,  or  the  reverse  ;  and  on  the  com- 
posite impulses  that  were  threatening  to  hurry  Mr.  Tulliver 
into  "law,"  Mrs.  Tulliver's  monotonous  pleading  had  doubt- 
less its  share  of  force  ;  it  might  even  be  comparable  to  that 
proverbial  feather  which  has  the  credit  or  discredit  of  breaking 
the  camel's  back ;  though,  on  a  strictly  impartial  view,  the 
blame  ought  rather  to  lie  with  the  previous  weight  of  feathers 
which  had  already  placed  the  back  in  such  imminent  peril,  that 
an  otherwise  innocent  feather  could  not  settle  on  it  without 
mischief.  Not  that  Mrs.  Tulliver's  feeble  beseeching  could 
have  had  this  feather's  weight  in  virtue  of  her  single  personal- 
ity ;  but  whenever  she  departed  from  entire  assent  to  her  hus- 
band, he  saw  in  her  the  representative  of  the  Dodson  family  ; 
and  it  was  a  guiding  principle  with  Mr.  Tulliver,  to  let  the 
Dodsons  knx)W  that  they  were  not  to  domineer  over  Jiim,  or  — 
more  specifically  —  that  a  male  Tulliver  was  far  more  than 
equal  to  four  female  Dodsons,  even  though  one  of  them  was 
J!ilrs.  Glegg. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  169 

But  not  even  a  direct  argument  from  that  typical  Dodson 
female  herself  against  his  going  to  law,  could  have  heightened 
his  disposition  towards  it  so  much  as  the  mere  thought  of 
Wakem,  continually  freshened  by  the  sight  of  the  too  able 
attorney  on  market-days.  Wakem,  to  his  certain  knowledge, 
was  (metaphorically  speaking)  at  the  bottom  of  Pivart's  irri- 
gation :  Wakem  had  tried  to  make  Dix  stand  out,  and  go  to 
law  about  the  dam :  it  was  unquestionably  Wakem  who  had 
caused  Mr.  Tulliver  to  lose  the  suit  about  the  right  of  road  and 
the  bridge  that  made  a  thoroughfare  of  his  land  for  every  vaga- 
bond who  preferred  an  opportunity  of  damaging  private  prop- 
erty to  walking  like  an  honest  man  along  the  highroad ;  all 
lawyers  were  more  or  less  rascals,  but  Wakem's  rascality  was 
of  that  peculiarly  aggravated  kind  which  placed  itself  in  oppo- 
sition to  that  form  of  right  embodied  in  Mr.  Tulliver's  inter- 
ests and  opinions.  And  as  an  extra  touch  of  bitterness,  the 
injured  miller  had  recently,  in  borrowing  the  five  hundred 
pounds,  been  obliged  to  carry  a  little  business  to  Wakem's 
office  on  his  own  account.  A  hook-nosed  glib  fellow !  as  cool 
as  a  cucumber  —  always  looking  so  sure  of  his  game !  And  it 
was  vexatious  that  Lawyer  Gore  was  not  more  like  him,  but 
was  a  bald,  round-featured  man,  with  bland  manners  and  fat 
hands  ;  a  game-cock  that  you  would  be  rash  to  bet  upon  against 
Wakem.  Gore  was  a  sly  fellow ;  his  weakness  did  not  lie  on 
the  side  of  scrupulosity  :  but  the  largest  amount  of  winking, 
however  significant,  is  not  equivalent  to  seeing  through  a 
stone  wall ;  and  confident  as  Mr.  Tulliver  was  in  his  prin- 
ciple that  water  was  water,  and  in  the  direct  inference  that 
Pivart  had  not  a  leg  to  stand  on  in  this  affair  of  irrigation, 
he  had  an  uncomfortable  suspicion  that  Wakem  had  more 
law  to  show  against  this  (rationally)  irrefragable  inference, 
than  Gore  could  show  for  it.  But  then,  if  they  went  to  law, 
there  was  a  chance  for  Mr.  Tulliver  to  employ  Counsellor 
Wylde  on  his  side,  instead  of  having  that  admirable  bully 
against  him ;  and  the  prospect  of  seeing  a  witness  of  Wakem's 
made  to  perspire  and  become  confounded,  as  Mr.  Tulliver's 
witness  had  once  been,  was  alluring  to  the  love  of  retributive 
justice. 


170  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Mucli  rumination  had  Mr.  Tulliver  on  these  puzzling  subjects 
during  his  rides  on  the  gray  horse  —  much  turning  of  the 
head  from  side  to  side,  as  the  scales  dipped  alternately ;  but 
the  probable  result  was  still  out  of  sight,  only  to  be  reached 
through  much  hot  argument  and  iteration  in  domestic  and  so- 
cial life.  That  initial  stage  of  the  dispute  which  consisted  in 
the  narration  of  the  case  and  the  enforcement  of  Mr.  Tulliver's 
views  concerning  it  throughout  the  entire  circle  of  his  connec- 
tions would  necessarily  take  time,  and  at  the  beginning  of  Feb- 
ruary, when  Tom  Avas  going  to  school  again,  there  were  scarcely 
any  new  items  to  be  detected  in  his  father's  statement  of  the 
case  against  Pivart,  or  any  more  specific  indication  of  the 
measures  he  was  bent  on  taking  against  that  rash  contravener 
of  the  principle  that  water  was  water.  Iteration,  like  friction, 
is  likely  to  generate  heat  instead  of  progress,  and  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver's heat  was  certainly  more  and  more  palpable.  If  there  had 
been  no  new  evidence  on  any  other  point,  there  had  been  new 
evidence  that  Pivart  was  as  "thick  as  mud"  with  Wakem. 

"  Father,"  said  Tom,  one  evening  near  the  end  of  the  holi- 
days, "uncle  Glegg  says  Lawyer  Wakem  is  going  to  send  his 
son  to  Mr.  Stelling.  It  is  n't  true  —  what  they  said  about  his 
going  to  be  sent  to  France.  You  won't  like  me  to  go  to  school 
with  Wakem's  son,  shall  you  ?  " 

"  It 's  no  matter  for  that,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver ; 
"  don't  you  learn  anything  bad  of  him,  that 's  all.  The  lad  's 
a  poor  deformed  creatur,  and  takes  after  his  mother  in  the 
face  :  I  think  there  is  n't  much  of  his  father  in  him.  It 's  a 
sign  Wakem  tliinks  high  o'  Mr.  Stelling,  as  he  sends  his  son 
to  him,  and  Wakem  knows  meal  from  bran." 

Mr.  Tulliver  in  his  heart  was  rather  proud  of  the  fact  that 
his  son  was  to  have  the  same  advantages  as  Wakem's :  but 
Tom  was  not  at  all  easy  on  the  point ;  it  would  have  been 
much  clearer  if  the  lawyer's  son  had  not  been  deformed,  for 
then  Tom  would  have  had  the  prospect  of  pitching  into  him 
with  all  that  freedom  which  is  derived  from  a  high  moral 
sanction. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  171 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    NEW    SCHOOLFELLOW. 

It  was  a  cold,  wet  January  day  on  which  Tom  went  back 
to  school ;  a  day  quite  in  keeping  with  this  severe  phase  of 
his  destiny.  If  he  had  not  carried  in  his  pocket  a  parcel  of 
sugar-candy  and  a  small  Dutch  doll  for  little  Laura,  there 
would  have  been  no  ray  of  expected  pleasure  to  enliven  the 
general  gloom.  But  he  liked  to  think  how  Laura  would  put 
out  her  lips  and  her  tiny  hands  for  the  bits  of  sugar-candy ; 
and,  to  give  the  greater  keenness  to  these  pleasures  of  imagi- 
nation, he  took  out  the  parcel,  made  a  small  hole  in  the  paper, 
and  bit  off  a  crystal  or  two,  which  had  so  solacing  an  effect 
under  the  confined  prospect  and  damp  odors  of  the  gig- 
umbrella,  that  he  repeated  the  process  more  than  once  on  his 
way. 

"  Well,  Tulliver,  we  're  glad  to  see  you  again,"  said  Mr. 
Stalling,  heartily.  "  Take  off  your  wrappings  and  oome  into 
the  study  till  dinner.  You  '11  find  a  bright  fire  there,  and  a 
new  companion." 

Tom  felt  in  an  uncomfortable  flutter  as  he  took  off  his 
woollen  comforter  and  other  wrappings.  He  had  seen  Philip 
Wakem  at  St.  Ogg's,  but  had  always  turned  his  eyes  away 
from  him  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  would  have  disliked 
having  a  deformed  boy  for  his  companion,  even  if  Philip  had 
not  been  the  son  of  a  bad  man.  And  Tom  did  not  see  how 
a  bad  man's  son  could  be  very  good.  His  own  father  was  a 
good  man,  and  he  would  readily  have  fought  any  one  who 
said  the  contrary.  He  was  in  a  state  of  mingled  embarrass- 
ment and  defiance  as  he  followed  Mr.  Stelling  to  the  study. 

"  Here  is  a  new  companion  for  you  to  shake  hands  withj 
Tulliver,"  said  that  gentleman  on  entering  the  study  — 
"  Master  Philip  Wakem.  I  shall  leave  you  to  make  acquaint- 
ance by  yourselves.  You  already  know  something  of  each 
other,  I  imagine  ;  for  you  are  neighbors  at  home." 


172  THE   MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Tom  looked  confused  and  awkward,  while  Philip  rose  and 
glanced  at  him  timidly.  Tom  did  not  like  to  go  up  and  put 
out  his  hand,  and  he  was  not  prepared  to  say,  "  How  do  you 
do  ?  "  on  so  short  a  notice. 

Mr.  Stelling  wisely  turned  away,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him  :  boys'  shyness  only  wears  off  in  the  absence  of  their 
elders. 

Philip  was  at  once  too  proud  and  too  timid  to  walk  towards 
Tom.  He  thought,  or  rather  felt,  that  Tom  had  an  aversion 
to  looking  at  him :  every  one,  almost,  disliked  looking  at  him  ; 
and  his  deformity  was  more  conspicuous  when  he  walked. 
So  they  remained  without  shaking  hands  or  even  speaking, 
while  Tom  went  to  the  fire  and  warmed  himself,  every  now 
and  then  casting  furtive  glances  at  Philip,  who  seemed  to  be 
drawing  absently  first  one  object  and  then  another  on  a  piece 
of  paper  he  had  before  him.  He  had  seated  himself  again, 
and  as  he  drew,  was  thinking  what  he  could  say  to  Tom,  and 
trying  to  overcome  his  own  repugnance  to  making  the  first 
advances. 

Tom  began  to  look  oftener  and  longer  at  Philip's  face,  for 
he  could  see  it  without  noticing  the  hump,  and  it  was  really 
not  a  disagreeable  face  —  very  old-looking,  Tom  thought.  He 
wondered  how  much  older  Philip  was  than  himself.  An  anat- 
omist —  even  a  mere  physiognomist  —  would  have  seen  that 
the  deformity  of  Philip's  spine  was  not  a  congenital  hump, 
but  the  result  of  an  accident  in  infancy;  but  you  do  not 
expect  from  Tom  any  acquaintance  with  such  distinctions  :  to 
him,  Philip  was  simply  a  humpback.  He  had  a  vague  notion 
that  the  deformity  of  Wakem's  son  had  some  relation  to  the 
lawyer's  rascality,  of  which  he  had  so  often  heard  his  father 
talk  with  hot  emphasis  ;  and  he  felt,  too,  a  half-admitted  fear 
of  him  as  probably  a  spiteful  fellow,  who,  not  being  able  to 
fight  you,  had  cunning  ways  of  doing  you  a  mischief  by  the 
sly.  There  was  a  humpbacked  tailor  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Mr.  Jacobs's  academy,  who  was  considered  a  very  unamiable 
character,  and  was  much  hooted  after  by  public-spirited  boys 
solely  on  the  ground  of  his  unsatisfactory  moral  qualities  ;  so 
ihat  Tom  was  not  without  a  basis  of  fact  to  go  upon.     Still, 


SCHOOL-TIME.  173 

ao  face  could  be  more  unlike  that  ugly  tailor's  than  this 
melancholy  boy's  face ;  the  brown  hair  round  it  waved  and 
curled  at  the  ends  like  a  girl's  :  Tom  thought  that  truly  pitia- 
ble. This  Wakera  was  a  pale,  puny  fellow,  and  it  was  quite 
clear  he  would  not  be  able  to  play  at  anything  worth  speaking 
of:  but  he  handled  his  pencil  in  an  enviable  manner,  and 
was  apparently  making  one  thing  after  another  without  any 
trouble.  What  was  he  drawing  ?  Tom  was  quite  warm  now, 
and  wanted  something  new  to  be  going  forward.  It  was  cer- 
tainly more  agreeable  to  have  an  ill-natured  humpback  as  a 
companion  than  to  stand  looking  out  of  the  study  window  at 
the  rain,  and  kicking  his  foot  against  the  washboard  in  soli- 
tude ;  something  would  happen  every  day  —  "a  quarrel  or 
something  ;  "  and  Tom  thought  he  should  rather  like  to  show 
Philip  that  he  had  better  not  try  his  spiteful  tricks  on  him. 
He  suddenly  walked  across  the  hearth,  and  looked  over  Philip's 
paper. 

"Why,  that 's  a  donkey  with  panniers  — and  a  spaniel,  and 
partridges  in  the  corn  !  "  he  exclaimed,  his  tongue  being  com- 
pletely loosed  by  surprise  and  admiration.  "  Oh  my  buttons  !  I 
wish  I  could  draw  like  that.  I  'm  to  learn  drawing  this  half 
—  I  wonder  if  I  shall  learn  to  make  dogs  and  donkeys ! " 

"  Oh,  you  can  do  them  without  learning,"  said  Philip ;  "  I 
never  learned  drawing." 

" Never  learned  ? "  said  Tom,  in  amazement.  "Why,  when 
I  make  dogs  and  horses,  and  those  things,  the  heads  and  the 
legs  won't  come  right ;  though  I  can  see  how  they  ought  to  be 
very  well.  I  can  make  houses,  and  all  sorts  of  chimneys  — 
chimneys  going  all  down  the  wall,  and  windows  in  the  roof, 
and  all  that.  But  I  dare  say  I  could  do  dogs  and  horses  if 
I  was  to  try  more,"  he  added,  reflecting  that  Philip  might 
falsely  suppose  that  he  was  going  to  "knock  under,"  if  he 
were  too  frank  about  the  imperfection  of  his  accomplishments. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Philip,  "  it 's  very  easy.  You  Ve  only  to 
look  well  at  things,  and  draw  them  over  and  over  again.  What 
you  do  wrong  once,  you  can  alter  the  next  time." 

"But  have  n't  you  been  taught  a?i//thing  ?"  said  Tom,  begin- 
•aing  to  have  a  puzzled  suspicion  that  Philip's  crooked  back 


174  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

might   be  the  source  of  remarkable  faculties.      *'  I   thought 
you  'd  beeu  to  school  a  loug  while." 

"Yes,"  said  Philip,  smiling,  "I've  been  taught  Latin,  and 
Greek,  and  mathematics,  —  and  writing,  and  such  things." 

"  Oh,  but  I  say,  you  don't  like  Latin,  though,  do  you  ?  "  said 
Tom,  lowering  his  voice  confidentially. 

"  Pretty  well ;  I  don't  care  much  about  it,"  said  Philip. 

"  Ah,  but  perhaps  you  have  n't  got  into  the  Proj^jria  qum 
maribus,"  said  Tom,  nodding  his  head  sideways,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  that  was  the  test :  it  was  easy  talking  till  you  came 
to  that'' 

Philip  felt  some  bitter  complacency  in  the  promising  stu- 
pidity of  this  well-made  active-looking  boy ;  but  made  polite 
by  his  own  extreme  sensitiveness,  as  well  as  by  his  desire 
to  conciliate,  he  checked  his  inclination  to  laugh,  and  said, 
quietly  — 

"  I  've  done  with  the  grammar ;  I  don't  learn  that  any 
more." 

"  Then  you  won't  have  the  same  lessons  as  I  shall  ?  "  said 
Tom,  with  a  sense  of  disappointment. 

"  No  ;  but  I  dare  say  I  can  help  you.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
help  you  if  I  can." 

Tom  did  not  say  "Thank"  you,"  for  he  was  quite  absorbed 
in  the  thought  that  Wakem's  son  did  not  seem  so  spiteful  a 
fellow  as  might  have  been  expected. 

"I  say,"  he  said  presently,  "do  you  love  your  father  ?  " 

"  Yes,  "  said  Philip,  coloring  deeply  ;  "  don't  you  love 
j^ours  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes.  ...  I  only  wanted  to  know,"  said  Tom,  rather 
ashamed  of  himself,  now  he  saw  Philip  coloring  and  looking 
uncomfortable.  He  found  much  difficulty  in  adjusting  his  at- 
titude of  mind  towards  the  son  of  Lawyer  Wakem,  and  it  had 
occurred  to  him  that  if  Philip  disliked  his  father,  that  fact 
might  go  some  way  towards  clearing  up  his  perplexity. 

"  Shall  you  learn  drawing  now  ?  "  he  said,  by  way  of  chang- 
ing the  subject. 

^     "  No,"  said  Philip.     "  My  father  wishes  me  to  give  all  my 
time  to  other  things  now." 


SCHOOL-TIME.  175 

"  What !  Latin,  and  Euclid,  and  those  things  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip,  who  had  left  off  using  his  pencil,  and 
was  resting  his  head  on  one  hand,  while  Tom  was  leaning  for- 
ward on  both  elbows,  and  looking  with  increasing  admiration 
at  the  dog  and  the  donkey. 

"  And    you   don't   mind   that  ?  "    said   Tom,    with   strong 
curiosity 

'^  No :  I  like  to  know  what  everybody  else  knows.  I  can 
study  what  1  like  by-and-by." 

"I  can't  think  why  anybody  should  learn  Latin,"  said  Tom. 
"  It 's  no  good." 

"It's  part  of  the  education  of  a  gentleman,"  said  Philip. 
"All  gentlemen  learn  the  same  things." 

"  What !  do  you  think  Sir  John  Crake,  the  master  of  the 
harriers,  knows  Latin  ?  "  said  Tom,  who  had  often  thought  he 
should  like  to  resemble  Sir  John  Crake. 

"  He  learnt  it  when  he  was  a  boy,  of  course,"  said  Philip. 
"But  I  dare  say  he  's  forgotten  it." 

"Oh,  well,  I  can  do  that,  then,"  said  Tom,  not  with  any 
epigrammatic  intention,  but  with  serious  satisfaction  at  the 
idea  that,  as  far  as  Latin  was  concerned,  there  was  no  hin- 
drance to  his  resembling  Sir  John  Crake.  "Only  you're 
obliged  to  remember  it  while  you  're  at  school,  else  you  've  got 
to  learn  ever  so  many  lines  of  '  Sj^eaker '  Mr.  Stelling  's 
very  particular  —  did  you  know  ?  He  '11  have  you  up  ten 
times  if  you  say  '  nam '  for  '  jam '  ...  he  won't  let  you  go  a 
letter  wrong,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Philip,  unable  to  choke  a  laugh ; 
"  I  can  remember  things  easily.  And  there  are  some  lessons 
I  'm  very  fond  of.  I  'ra  very  fond  of  Greek  history,  and  every- 
thing about  the  Greeks.  I  should  like  to  have  been  a  Greek 
and  fought  the  Persians,  and  then  have  come  home  and  have 
written  tragedies,  or  else  have  been  listened  to  by  everybody 
for  my  wisdom,  like  Socrates,  and  have  died  a  grand  death." 
(Philip,  you  perceive,  was  not  without  a  wish  to  impress  the 
well-made  barbarian  with  a  sense  of  his  mental  superiority.) 

"  Why,  were  the  Greeks  great  fighters  ? "  said  Tom,  who 
saw  a  vista  in  this  direction.     "  Is  there  anything  like  David^ 


176  THE   MILL   ON  THE   FLOSS, 

and  Goliath,  and  Samson,  in  the  Greek  history  ?  Those  are 
the  only  bits  I  like  in  the  history  of  the  Jews." 

"Oh,  there  are  very  fine  stories  of  that  sort  about  the 
Greeks  —  about  the  heroes  of  early  times  who  killed  the  wild 
beasts,  as  Samson  did.  And  in  the  '■  Odyssey '  —  that 's  a  beau- 
tiful poem  —  there 's  a  more  wonderful  giant  than  Goliath  — 
Polypheme^  who  had  only  one  eye  in  the  middle  of  his  fore- 
head ;  and  Ulysses,  a  little  fellow,  but  very  wise  and  cunning, 
got  a  red-hot  pine-tree  and  stuck  it  into  this  one  eye,  and  made 
him  roar  like  a  thousand  bulls," 

"Oh,  what  fun  ! "  said  Tom,  jumping  away  from  the  table, 
and  stamping  first  with  one  leg  and  then  the  other.  "  I  say, 
can  you  tell  me  all  about  those  stories  ?  Because  I  shan't 
learn  Greek,  you  know.  .  .  .  Shall  I  ?  "  he  added,  pausing  in 
his  stamping  with  a  sudden  alarm,  lest  the  contrary  might  be 
possible.  "  Does  every  gentleman  learn  Greek  ?  .  .  .  Will 
Mr.  Stelling  make  me  begin  with  it,  do  you  think?  " 

"No,  I  should  think  not  —  very  likely  not,"  said  Philip. 
"But  you  may  read  those  stories  without  knowing  Greek. 
I  've  got  them  in  English." 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  like  reading ;  I  'd  sooner  have  you  tell 
them  me.  But  only  the  fighting  ones,  you  know.  My  sister 
Maggie  is  always  wanting  to  tell  me  stories  —  but  they  're 
stupid  things.  Girls'  stories  always  are.  Can  you  tell  a  good 
many  fighting  stories  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Philip;  "lots  of  them,  besides  the  Greek 
stories.  I  can  tell  you  about  Richard  CoBur-de-Lion  and  Sala- 
din,  and  about  William  Wallace,  and  Robert  Bruce,  and  James 
Douglas  —  1  know  no  end." 

"  You  're  older  than  I  am,  are  n't  you  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Why,  how  old  are  you  ?     I  'm  fifteen." 

"  I  'm  only  going  in  fourteen,"  said  Tom.  "  But  I  thrashed 
all  the  fellows  at  Jacobs's  —  that 's  where  I  was  before  I  came 
here.  And  I  beat  'em  all  at  bandy  and  climbing.  And  I  wish 
Mr.  Stelling  would  let  us  go  fishing.  /  could  show  you  how 
to  fish.  You  could  fish,  couldn't  you?  It's  only  standing, 
^and  sitting  still,  you  know." 

Tom,  in  his  turn,  wished  to  make  the  balance  dip  in  his 


SCHOOL-TIME.  177 

favor.  This  hunchback  must  not  suppose  that  his  acquaint- 
ance with  fighting  stories  put  him  on  a  par  with  an  actual 
figliting  hero,  like  Tom  Tulliver.  Philip  winced  under  this 
allusion  to  his  unfitness  for  active  sports,  and  he  answered 
almost  peevishly  — 

"I  can't  bear  fishing.  I  think  people  look  like  fools  sit- 
ting watching  a  line  hour  after  hour  —  or  else  throwing  and 
throwing,  and  catching  nothing." 

"  Ah,  but  you  would  n't  say  they  looked  like  fools  when 
they  landed  a  big  pike,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Tom,  who  had 
never  caught  anything  that  was  "big"  in  his  life,  but  whose 
imagination  was  on  the  stretch  with  indignant  zeal  for  the 
honor  of  sport.  Wakem's  son,  it  was  plain,  had  his  disagree- 
able points,  and  must  be  kept  in  due  check.  Happily  for  the 
harmony  of  this  first  interview,  they  were  now  called  to  din- 
ner, and  Philip  was  not  allowed  to  develop  farther  his  un- 
sound views  on  the  subject  of  fishing.  But  Tom  said  to 
himself,  that  was  just  what  he  should  have  expected  from  a 
hunchback. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"the  young  idea." 

The  alternations  of  feeling  in  that  first  dialogue  between 
Tom  and  Philip  continued  to  mark  their  intercourse  even  after 
many  weeks  of  schoolboy  intimacy.  Tom  never  quite  lost  the 
feeling  that  Philip,  being  the  son  of  a  "  rascal,"  was  his  natu- 
ral enemy,  never  thoroughly  overcame  his  repulsion  to  Philip's 
deformity :  he  was  a  boy  who  adhered  tenaciously  to  impres- 
sions once  received :  as  with  all  minds  in  which  mere  per- 
ception predominates  over  thought  and  emotion,  the  external 
remained  to  him  rigidly  what  it  was  in  the  first  instance. 
But  then,  it  was  impossible  not  to  like  Philip's  company  when 
he  was  in  a  good  humor ;  he  could  help  one  so  well  in  one's 
Latin  exercises,  which  Tom  regarded  as  a  kind  of  puzzle  that 
could  only  be  found  out  by  a  lucky  chance ;  and  he  could  tell 

YOL.    II.  IP 


178  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

such  wonderful  fighting  stories  about  Hal  of  the  Wynd,  for 
example,  and  other  heroes  who  were  especial  favorites  with 
Tom,  because  they  laid  about  them  with  heavy  strokes.  He 
had  small  opinion  of  Saladin,  whose  scimitar  could  cut  a  cush- 
,  ion  in  two  in  an  instant :  who  wanted  to  cut  cushions  ?  That 
was  a  stupid  story,  and  he  didn't  care  to  hear  it  again.  But 
when  Robert  Bruce,  on  the  black  pony,  rose  in  his  stirrups, 
and,  lifting  his  good  battle-axe,  cracked  at  once  the  helmet 
and  the  skull  of  the  too  hasty  knight  at  Bannockburn,  tlien 
Tom  felt  all  the  exaltation  of  sympathy,  and  if  he  had  had  a 
cocoa-nut  at  hand,  he  would  have  cracked  it  at  once  with  the 
poker.  Philip  in  his  happier  moods  indulged  Tom  to  the  top 
of  his  bent,  heightening  the  crash  and  bang  and  fury  of  every 
fight  with  all  the  artillery  of  epithets  and  similes  at  his  com- 
mand. But  he  was  not  always  in  a  good  humor  or  happy 
mood.  The  slight  spurt  of  peevish  susceptibility  which  had 
escaped  him  in  their  first  interview,  was  a  symptom  of  a  per- 
petually recurring  mental  ailment  —  half  of  it  nervous  irrita- 
bility, half  of  it  the  heart-bitterness  produced  by  the  sense  of 
his  deformity.  In  these  fits  of  susceptibility  every  glance 
seemed  to  him  to  be  charged  either  with  offensive  pity  or  with 
ill-repressed  disgust  —  at  the  very  least  it  was  an  indifferent 
glance,  and  Philip  felt  indilference  as  a  child  of  the  south  feels 
the  chill  air  of  a  northern  spring.  Poor  Tom's  blundering 
patronage  when  they  were  out  of  doors  together  would  some- 
times make  him  turn  upon  the  well-meaning  lad  quite  sav- 
agely ;  and  his  eyes,  usually  sad  and  quiet,  would  flash  with 
anything  but  playful  lightning.  No  wonder  Tom  retained  his 
suspicions  of  the  humpback. 

But  Philip's  self-taught  skill  in  drawing  was  another  link 
between  them;  for  Tom  found,  to  his  disgust,  that  his  new 
drawing-master  gave  him  no  dogs  and  donkeys  to  draw,  but 
brooks  and  rustic  bridges  and  ruins,  all  with  a  general  soft- 
ness of  black-lead  surface,  indicating  that  nature,  if  anything, 
was  rather  satiny ;  and  as  Tom's  feeling  for  the  picturesque 
in  landscape  was  at  present  quite  latent,  it  is  not  surprising 
'*'  that  Mr.  Goodrich's  productions  seemed  to  him  an  uninterest- 
ing form  of  art,     Mv.  TuUiver,  having  a  vague  intention  that 


SCHOOL-TIME.  179 

Tom  should  be  put  to  some  business  which  included  the  draw- 
ing out  of  plans  and  maps,  had  complained  to  Mr.  Riley, 
when  he  saw  him  at  Mudport,  that  Tom  seemed  to  be  learning 
nothing  of  that  sort ;  whereupon  that  obliging  adviser  had 
suggested  that  Tom  should  have  drawing-lessons.  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver  must  not  mind  paying  extra  for  drawing  :  let  Tom  be 
made  a  good  draughtsman,  and  he  would  be  able  to  turn  his 
pencil  to  any  purpose.  So  it  was  ordered  that  Tom  should 
have  drawing-lessons ;  and  whom  should  Mr.  Stelling  have 
selected  as  a  master  if  not  Mr.  Goodrich,  who  was  considered 
quite  at  the  head  of  his  profession  within  a  circuit  of  twelve 
miles  round  King's  Lorton  ?  By  which  means  Tom  learned 
to  make  an  extremely  fine  point  to  his  pencil,  and  to  represent 
landscape  with  a  '•'  broad  generality,"  which,  doubtless  from  a 
narrow  tendency  in  his  mind  to  details,  he  thought  extremely 
dull. 

All  this,  you  remember,  happened  in  those  dark  ages  when 
there  were  no  schools  of  design  —  before  schoolmasters  were 
invariably  men  of  scrupulous  integrity,  and  before  the  clergy 
were  all  men  of  enlarged  minds  and  varied  culture.  In  those 
less  favored  days,  it  is  no  fable  that  there  were  other  clergy- 
men besides  Mr.  Stelling  who  had  narrow  intellects  and  large 
wants,  and  whose  income,  by  a  logical  confusion  to  which 
Fortune,  being  a  female  as  well  as  blindfold,  is  peculiarly 
liable,  was  proportioned  not  to  their  wants  but  to  their  in- 
tellect—  with  which  income  has  clearly  no  inherent  relation. 
The  problem  these  gentlemen  had  to  solve  was  to  readjust  the 
proportion  between  their  wants  and  their  income;  and  since 
wants  are  not  easily  starved  to  death,  the  simpler  method 
appeared  to  be  —  to  raise  their  income.  There  was  but  one 
way  of  doing  this  ;  any  of  those  low  callings  in  which  men 
are  obliged  to  do  good  work  at  a  low  price  were  forbidden 
to  clergyman :  was  it  their  fault  if  their  only  resource  was 
to  turn  out  very  poor  work  at  a  high  price  ?  Besides,  how 
should  Mr.  Stelling  be  expected  to  know  that  education  was 
a  delicate  and  difficult  business  ?  any  more  tlian  an  animal 
endowed  with  a  power  of  boring  a  hole  through  a  rock  should 
be  expected  to  have  wide  views  of  excavation.     Mr.  Stelling's 


180  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

faculties  had  been  early  trained  to  boring  m  a  straight  line, 
and  he  had  no  faculty  to  spare.  But  among  Tom's  contem- 
poraries, whose  fathers  cast  their  sons  on  clerical  instruction 
to  find  them  ignorant  after  many  days,  there  were  many  far 
less  lucky  than  Tom  Tulliver.  Education  was  almost  entirely 
a  matter  of  luck  —  usually  of  ill  luck  —  in  those  distant  days. 
The  state  of  mind  in  which  you  take  a  billiard-cue  or  a  dice- 
box  in  your  hand  is  one  of  sober  certainty  compared  with  that 
of  old-fashioned  fathers,  like  Mr.  Tulliver,  vv^hen  they  selected 
a  school  or  a  tutor  for  their  sons.  Excellent  men,  who  had 
been  forced  all  their  lives  to  spell  on  an  impromptu-phonetic 
system,  and  having  carried  on  a  successful  business  in  spite  of 
this  disadvantage,  had  acquired  money  enough  to  give  their 
sons  a  better  start  in  life  than  they  had  had  themselves,  must 
necessarily  take  their  chance  as  to  the  conscience  and  the  com- 
petence of  the  schoolmaster  whose  circular  fell  in  their  way, 
and  appeared  to  promise  so  much  more  than  they  would  ever 
have  thought  of  asking  for,  including  the  return  of  linen,  fork, 
and  spoon.  It  was  happy  for  them  if  some  ambitious  draper 
of  their  acquaintance  had  not  brought  up  his  son  to  the 
Church,  and  if  that  young  gentleman,  at  the  age  of  four-and- 
twenty,  had  not  closed  his  college  dissipations  by  an  impru- 
dent marriage :  otherwise,  these  innocent  fathers,  desirous  of 
doing  the  best  for  their  offspring,  could  only  escape  the  drar 
per's  son  by  happening  to  be  on  the  foundation  of  a  grammar- 
school  as  yet  unvisited  by  commissioners,  where  two  or 
three  boys  could  have,  all  to  themselves,  the  advantages  of  a 
large  and  lofty  building,  together  with  a  head-master,  tooth 
less,  dim-eyed,  and  deaf,  whose  erudite  indistinctness  and 
inattention  were  engrossed  by  them  at  the  rate  of  three  hun- 
dred pounds  a-head — a  ripe  scholar,  doubtless,  when  first 
appointed;  but  all  ripeness  beneath  the  sun  has  a  further 
stage  less  esteemed  in  the  market. 

Tom  Tulliver,  then,  compared  with  many  other  British 
youths  of  his  time  who  have  since  had  to  scramble  through 
life  with  some  fragments  of  more  or  less  relevant  knowledge, 
and  a  great  deal  of  strictly  relevant  ignorance,  was  not  so 
very  unlucky.     Mr.  Stelling  was  a  broad-chested  healthy  man, 


SCHOOL-TIME  181 

with  the  bearing  of  a  gentleman,  a  conviction  that  a  growing 
boy  required  a  sufficiency  of  beef,  and  a  certain  hearty  kind- 
ness in  him  that  made  him  like  to  see  Tom  looking  well  and 
en3oying  his  dinner ;  not  a  man  of  refined  conscience,  or  with 
any  deep  sense  of  the  infinite  issues  belonging  to  every-day 
duties ,  not  quite  competent  to  his  high  offices  ;  but  incom- 
petent gentlemen  must  live,  and  without  private  fortune  it  is 
difficult  to  see  how  they  could  all  live  genteelly  if  they  had 
nothing  to  do  witb  educatiou  or  government.  Besides,  it  was 
the  fault  of  Tom's  mental  constitution  that  his  faculties  could 
not  be  nourished  on  the  sort  of  knowledge  Mr,  Stelling  had 
to  communicate.  A  boy  born  with  a  deficient  power  of  appre- 
hending signs  and  abstractions  must  suffer  the  penalty  of  his 
congenital  deficiency,  just  as  if  he  had  been  born  with  one  leg 
shorter  than  the  other  A  method  of  education  sanctioned  by 
the  long  practice  of  our  venerable  ancestors  was  not  to  give 
way  before  the  exceptional  duiness  of  a  boy  who  was  merely 
living  at  the  time  then  present.  And  Mr.  Stelling  was  con- 
vinced that  a  boy  so  stupid  at  signs  and  abstractions  must  be 
stupid  at  everything  else,  even  if  that  reverend  gentleman 
could  have  taught  him  everything  else.  It  was  the  practice 
of  our  venerable  ancestors  to  apply  that  ingenious  instrument 
the  thumb-screw,  and  to  tighten  and  tighten  it  in  order  to 
elicit  non-existent  facts  ;  they  had  a  fixed  opinion  to  begin 
with,  that  the  facts  were  existent,  and  what  had  they  to  do 
but  to  tighten  the  thumb-screw  ?  In  like  manner,  Mr  Stell 
ing  had  a  fixed  opinion  that  all  boys  with  any  capacity  could 
learn  what  it  was  the  only  regular  thing  to  teach .  if  they 
were  slow,  the  thumb-screw  must  be  tightened  —  the  exercises 
must  be  insisted  on  with  increased  severity,  and  a  page  of 
Virgil  be  awarded  as  a  penalty,  to  encourage  and  stimulate  a 
too  languid  inclination  to  Latin  verse. 

The  thumb-screw  was  a  little  relaxed,  however,  during  this 
second  half-year.  Philip  was  so  advanced  in  his  studies,  and 
so  apt,  that  Mr.  Stelling  could  obtain  credit  by  his  facility, 
which  required  little  help,  much  more  easily  than  by  the 
troublesome  process  of  overcoming  Tom's  duiness.  Gentle- 
men with  broad  chests  and  ambitious  intentions  do  sometimes 


182  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

disappoint  their  friends  by  failing  to  carry  tlie  world  before 
them.  Perhaps  it  is  that  high  achievements  demand  some 
other  unusual  qualification  besides  an  unusual  desire  for  high 
prizes ;  perhaps  it  is  that  these  stalwart  gentlemen  are  rather 
indolent,  their  divincB  particulum  aurce  being  obstructed  from 
soaring  by  a  too  hearty  appetite.  Some  reason  or  other  there 
was  why  Mr.  Stelling  deferred  the  execution  of  many  spirited 
projects — why  he  did  not  begin  the  editing  of  his  Greek  play, 
or  any  other  work  of  scholarship,  in  his  leisure  hours,  but, 
after  turning  the  key  of  his  private  study  Avith  much  resolu- 
tion, sat  down  to  one  of  Theodore  Hook's  novels.  Tom  was 
gradually  allowed  to  shuffle  through  his  lessons  with  less 
rigor,  and  having  Philip  to  help  him,  he  was  able  to  make 
some  show  of  having  applied  his  mind  in  a  confused  and 
blundering  way,  without  being  cross-examined  into  a  betrayal 
that  his  mind  had  been  entirely  neutral  in  the  matter.  He 
thought  school  much  more  bearable  under  this  modiiieation  of 
circumstances ;  and  he  went  on  contentedly  enough,  picking 
up  a  promiscuous  education  chiefly  from  things  that  were 
not  intended  as  education  at  all.  What  was  understood 
to  be  his  education,  was  simply  the  practice  of  reading, 
writing,  and  spelling,  carried  on  by  an  elaborate  appliance 
of  unintelligible  ideas,  and  by  much  failure  m  the  effort  to 
learn  by  rote. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  visible  improvement  in  Tom  under 
this  training ;  perhaps  because  he  was  not  a  boy  in  the  abstract, 
existing  solely  to  illustrate  the  evils  of  a  mistaken  education, 
but  a  boy  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  dispositions  not  en- 
tirely at  the  mercy  of  circumstances. 

There  was  a  great  improvement  in  his  bearing,  for  example, 
and  some  credit  on  this  score  was  due  to  Mr.  Poulter,  the  vil- 
lage schoolmaster,  who,  being  an  old  Peninsular  soldier,  was 
employed  to  drill  Tom  —  a  source  of  high  mutual  pleasure. 
Mr.  Poulter,  who  was  understood  by  the  company  at  the 
Black  Swan  to  have  once  struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  the 
French,  was  no  longer  personally  formidable.  He  had  rather 
a  shrunken  appearance,  and  was  tremulous  in  the  mornings, 
ikOt  from  age,  but  from  the  extreme  perversity  of  the  King's 


SCHOOL-TIME.  183 

Lorton  boys,  which  nothing  but  gin  could  enable  him  to  sus- 
tain with  any  firmness.     Still,  he  carried  himself  with  martial 
erectness,  had  his  clothes  scrupulously  brushed,  and  his  trou- 
sers tightly  strapped;  and  on  the  Wednesday  and  Saturday 
afternoons,  when  he  came  to  Tom,  he  was  always  inspired 
with  gin  and  old  memories,  which  gave  him  an  exceptionally 
spirited  air,  as  of  a  superannuated  charger  who  hears  the  drum. 
The  drilling-lessons    were  always  protracted   by  episodes  of 
warlike  narrative,  much  more  interesting  to  Tom  than  Philip's 
stories  out  of  the  '  Iliad ; '  for  there  were  no  cannon  in  the 
'^  Iliad,'  and  besides,  Tom  had  felt  some  disgust  on  learning 
that  Hector  and  Achilles  might  possibly  never  have  existed. 
But  the  Duke  of  Wellington  was  really  alive,  and  Bony  had 
not  been  long  dead  —  therefore  Mr.  Poulter's  reminiscences  of 
the  Peninsular  War  were  removed  from  all  suspicion  of  being 
mythical.     Mr.  Poulter,  it  appeared,  had  been  a  conspicuous 
figure  at  Talavera,  and  had  contributed  not  a  little  to  t/ie  pe- 
culiar terror  with  which  his  regiment  of  infantry  was  regarded 
by  the  enemy.     On  afternoons,  when  his  memory  was  more 
stimulated  than  usual,  he  remembered  that  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington had  (in  strict  privacy,  lest  jealousies  should  be  awak- 
ened) expressed  his  esteem  for  that  fine  fellow  Poulter.     The 
very  surgeon  who  attended  him  in  the  hospital  after  he  had 
received  his  gunshot-wound,  had  been  profoundly  impressed 
with  the  superiority  of   Mr.  Poulter's  flesh :  no  other  flesh 
would  have  healed  in  anything  like  the  same  time.     On  less 
personal   matters    connected  with  the   important  warfare   in 
which  he  had  been  engaged,  Mr.  Poulter  was  more  reticent, 
only  taking  care  not  to  give  the  weight  of  his  authority  to  any 
loose  notions  concerning  military  history.     Any  one  who  pre- 
tended to  a  knowledge  of  what  occurred  at  the  siege  of  Bada- 
jos,  was  especially  an  object  of  silent  pity  to  Mr.  Poulter  ;  he 
wished  that  prating  person  had  been  run  down,  and  had  the 
breath  trampled  out  of  him  at  the  first  go-off,  as  he  himself 
had  —  he  might  talk  about  the  siege  of  Badajos,  then  !     Tom 
did  not  escape  irritating  his  drilling-master  occasionally,  by  his 
curiosity  concerning  other  militaxy  matters  than  Mr.  Poulter's 
pevsonai  experience. 


184  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  And  General  Wolfe,  Mr.  Poulter  ?  was  n't  he  a  wonderful 
fighter  ?  "  said  Tom,  who  held  the  notion  that  all  the  martial 
heroes  commemorated  on  the  public-house  signs  were  engaged 
in  the  war  with  Bony. 

"  Not  at  all !  "  said  Mr.  Poulter,  contemptuously.  "  Noth- 
ing o'  the  sort !  .  .  .  Heads  up,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  stern 
command,  which  delighted  Tom,  and  made  him  feel  as  if  he 
"were  a  regiment  in  his  own  person. 

"  No,  no  ! "  Mr.  Poulter  would  continue,  on  coming  to  a 
pause  in  his  discipline.  "  They  'd  better  not  talk  to  me  about 
General  Wolfe.  He  did  nothing  but  die  of  his  wound  :  that 's 
a  poor  haction,  I  consider.  Any  other  man  'ud  have  died  o' 
the  wounds  I  've  had.  .  .  .  One  of  my  sword-cuts  'ud  ha'  killed 
a  fellow  like  General  Wolfe." 

"  Mr.  Poulter,"  Tom  would  say,  at  any  allusion  to  the  sword, 
"  I  wish  you  'd  bring  your  sword  and  do  the  sword-exercise  !  " 

For  a  long  while  Mr.  Poulter  only  shook  his  head  in  a  sig- 
nificant manner  at  this  reqiiest,  and  smiled  patronizingly,  as 
Jupiter  may  have  done  when  Semele  urged  her  too  ambitious 
request.  But  one  afternoon,  when  a  sudden  shower  of  heavy 
rain  had  detained  Mr.  Poulter  twenty  minutes  longer  than 
usual  at  the  Black  Swan,  the  sword  was  brought  —  just  for 
Tom  to  look  at. 

"  And  this  is  the  real  sword  you  fought  with  in  all  the  bat- 
tles, Mr.  Poulter?"  said  Tom,  handling  the  hilt.  "Has  it 
ever  cut  a  Frenchman's  head  off  ?  " 

"  Head  off  ?     Ah  !  and  would,  if  he  'd  had  three  heads." 

"  But  you  had  a  gun  and  bayonet  besides  ?  "  said  Tom.  *'  1 
should  like  the  gun  and  bayonet  best,  because  you  could  shoot 
'em  first  and  spear  'em  after.  Bang  !  Ps-s-s-s  !  "  Tom  gave 
the  requisite  pantomime  to  indicate  the  double  enjoyment  of 
pulling  the  trigger  and  thrusting  the  spear. 

"Ah,  but  the  sword's  the  thing  when  you  come  to  close 
fighting,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  involuntarily  falling  in  with  Tom's 
enthusiasm,  and  drawing  the  sword  so  suddenly  that  Tom 
leaped  back  with  much  agility. 

"  Oh  but,  Mr.  Poulter,  if  you  're  going  to  do  the  exercise," 
said  Tom,  a  little  conscious  that  he  had  not  stood  his  ground 


SCHOOL-TIME.  185 

as  became  an  Englishman,  '•  let  me  go  and  call  Philip.     He  '11 
like  to  see  you,  you  know." 

"  What !  the  humpbacked  lad  ?  "  said  Mr.  Poulter,  contempt- 
uously.    "  What 's  the  use  of  his  looking  on  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  he  knows  a  great  deal  about  fighting,"  said  Tom, 
"and  how  they  used  to  fight  with  bows  and  arrows,  and 
battle-axes." 

"  Let  him  come  then.  I  '11  show  him  sometliing  different 
from  his  bows  and  arrows,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  coughing,  and 
drawing  himself  up,  while  he  gave  a  little  preliminary  play  to 
his  wrist. 

Tom  ran  in  to  Philip,  who  was  enjoying  his  afternoon's 
holiday  at  the  piano,  in  the  drawing-room,  picking  out  tunes 
for  himself  and  singing  them.  He  was  supremely  happy, 
perched  like  an  amorphous  bundle  on  the  high  stool,  with  his 
head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  opposite  cornice,  and 
his  lips  wide  open,  sending  forth,  with  all  his  might,  im- 
promptu syllables  to  a  tune  of  Arne's,  which  had  hit  his 
fancy. 

"  Come,  Philip,"  said  Tom,  bursting  in ;  "  don't  stay  roar- 
ing 'la  la '  there  —  come  and  see  old  Poulter  do  his  sword- 
exercise  in  the  carriage-house  !  " 

The  jar  of  this  interruption  —  the  discord  of  Tom's  tones 
coming  across  the  notes  to  which  Philip  was  vibrating  in  soul 
and  body,  would  have  been  enough  to  unhinge  his  temper, 
even  if  there  had  been  no  question  of  Poulter  the  drilling- 
master  ;  and  Tom,  in  the  hurry  of  seizing  something  to  say  to 
prevent  Mr.  Poulter  from  thinking  he  was  afraid  of  the  sword 
when  he  sprang  away  from  it,  had  alighted  on  this  proposition 
to  fetch  Philip  —  though  he  knew  well  enough  that  Philip 
hated  to  hear  him  mention  his  drilling-lessons.  Tom  would 
never  have  done  so  inconsiderate  a  thing  except  under  the 
severe  stress  of  his  personal  pride. 

Philip  shuddered  visibly  as  he  paused  from  his  music. 
Then  turning  red,  he  said,  with  violent  passion  — 

"Get  away,  yoii  lumbering  idiot!  Don't  come  bellowing 
at  me  —  you're  not  fi^t  to  speak  to  anything  but  a  cait- 
horse ! " 


186 


THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 


It  was  not  the  first  time  Philip  had  been  made  angry  by 
him,  but  Tom  had  never  before  been  assailed  with  verbal 
missiles  that  he  understood  so  well. 

"  I  'm  fit  to  speak  to  something  better  than  you  —  you  poor- 
spirited  imp  !  "  said  Tom,  lighting  up  immediately  at  Philip's 
fire.  ''You  know  I  won't  hit  you,  because  you're  no  better 
than  a  girl.  But  I  'm  an  honest  man's  son,  and  your  father  's 
a  rogue  —  everybody  says  so  !  " 

Tom  flung  out  of  the  room,  and  slammed  the  door  after 
him,  made  strangely  heedless  by  his  anger ;  for  to  slam  doors 
within  the  hearing  of  Mrs.  Stelling,  who  was  probably  not  far 
off,  was  an  offence  only  to  be  wiped  out  by  twenty  lines  of 
Virgil.  In  fact,  that  lady  did  presently  descend  from  her 
room,  in  double  wonder  at  the  noise  and  the  subsequent  cessa 
tion  of  Philip's  music.  She  found  him  sitting  in  a  heap  on 
the  hassock,  and  crying  bitterly. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Wakem  ?  What  was  that  noise 
about  ?     Who  slammed  the  door  ?  " 

Philip  looked  up,  and  hastily  dried  his  eyes.  "  It  was  Tul- 
liver  who  came  in  .  .  .  to  ask  me  to  go  out  with  him." 

"  And  what  are  you  in  trouble  about  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Stelling. 

Philip  was  not  her  favorite  of  the  two  pupils  ;  he  was  less 
obliging  than  Tom,  who  was  made  useful  in  many  ways.  Still 
his  father  paid  more  than  Mr.  Tulliver  did,  and  she  meant  him 
to  feel  that  she  behaved  exceeding^  well  to  him.  Philip,  how- 
ever, met  her  advances  towards  a  good  understanding  very 
much  as  a  caressed  mollusc  meets  an  invitation  to  show  him- 
self out  of  his  shell.  Mrs.  Stelling  was  not  a  loving,  tender- 
hearted woman  :  she  was  a  woman  whose  skirt  sat  well,  who 
adjusted  her  waist  and  patted  her  curls  with  a  preoccupied 
air  when  she  inquired  after  your  welfare.  These  things, 
doubtless,  represent  a  great  social  power,  but  it  is  not  the 
power  of  love  -—  and  no  other  power  could  win  Philip  from 
his  personal  reserve. 

He  said,  in  answer  to  her  question,  "  My  toothache  came 
on,  and  made  me  hysterical  again." 

This  had  been  the  fact  once,  and  Philip  was  glad  of  the 
recollection  —  it  was    like    an   inspiration  to  enable  him  to 


SCHOOL-TIME.  187 

excuse  his  crying.  He  had  to  accept  eau-de-Cologne,  and  to 
refuse  creosote  in  consequence ;  but  that  was  easy. 

Meanwhile  Tom,  who  had  for  the  first  time  sent  a  poisoned 
arrow  into  Philip's  heart,  had  returned  to  the  carriage-house, 
where  he  found  Mr.  Poulter,  with  a  fixed  and  earnest  eye, 
wasting  the  perfections  of  his  sword-exercise  on  probably 
observant  but  inappreciative  rats.  But  Mr.  Poulter  was  a 
host  in  himself ;  that  is  to  say,  he  admired  himself  more  than 
a  whole  army  of  spectators  could  have  admired  him.  He  took 
no  notice  of  Tom's  return,  being  too  entirely  absorbed  in  the 
cut  and  thrust — the  solemn  one,  two,  three,  four;  and  Tom, 
not  without  a  slight  feeling  of  alarm  at  Mr.  Poulters  fixed 
eye  and  hungry-looking  sword,  which  seemed  impatient  for 
something  else  to  cut  besides  the  air,  admired  the  performance 
from  as  great  a  distance  as  possible.  It  was  not  until  Mr- 
Poulter  paused  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead, 
that  Tom  felt  the  full  charm  of  the  sword-exercise,  and 
wished  it  to  be  repeated. 

"Mr.  Poulter,"  said  Tom,  when  the  sword  was  being  finally 
sheathed,  "  I  wish  you  'd  lend  me  your  sword  a  little  while  to 
keep." 

"No,  no,  young  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  shaking  his 
head  decidedly,  "you  might  do  yourself  some  mischief  with  it." 

"  No,  I  'm  sure  I  would  n't  —  I  'm  sure  I  'd  take  care  and 
not  hurt  myself.  I  should  n't  take  it  out  of  the  sheath  much, 
but  I  could  ground  arms  with  it,  and  all  that." 

"  No,  no,  it  won't  do,  I  tell  you ;  it  won't  do,"  said  Mr. 
Poulter,  preparing  to  depart.  "  What  'ud  Mr.  Stelling  say 
to  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  say,  do,  Mr.  Poulter !  I  'd  give  you  my  five-shilling 
piece  if  you  'd  let  me  keep  the  sword  a  week.  Look  here  !  " 
said  Tom,  reaching  out  the  attractively  large  round  of  silver. 
The  young  dog  calculated  the  effect  as  well  as  if  he  had  been 
a  philosopher. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  with  still  deeper  gravity,  "you 
must  keep  it  out  of  sight,  you  know." 

"Oh  yes,  I'll  keep  it  under  the  bed,"  said  Tom,  eagerly^ 
"or  else  at  the  bottom  of  my  large  box." 


188  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

*'And  let  me  see,  now,  whether  you  can  draw  it  out  of  the 
sheath  without  hurting  yourself." 

That  process  having  been  gone  through  more  than  once,  Mr. 
Poulter  felt  that  he  had  acted  with  scrupulous  conscientious- 
ness, and  said,  "Well,  now,  Master  Tulliver,  if  I  take  the 
crown-piece,  it  is  to  make  sure  as  you  '11  do  no  mischief  with 
the  sword." 

"  Oh  no,  indeed,  Mr.  Poulter,"  said  Tom,  delightedly  hand- 
ing him  the  crown-piece,  and  grasping  the  sword,  which,  he 
thought,  might  have  been  lighter  with  advantage. 

"  But  if  Mr.  Stelling  catches  you  carrying  it  in  ? "  said 
Mr.  Poulter,  pocketing  the  crown-piece  provisionally  while  he 
raised  this  new  doubt. 

"Oh,  he  always  keeps  in  his  up-stairs  study  on  Saturday 
afternoons,"  said  Tom,  who  disliked  anything  sneaking,  but 
was  not  disinclined  to  a  little  stratagem  in  a  worthy  cause. 
So  he  carried  off  the  sword  in  triumph,  mixed  with  dread  — 
dread  that  he  might  encounter  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling  —  to  his 
bedroom,  where,  after  some  consideration,  he  hid  it  in  the 
closet  behind  some  hanging  clothes.  That  night  he  fell  asleep 
in  the  thought  that  he  would  astonish  Maggie  with  it  when 
she  came — tie  it  round  his  waist  with  his  red  comforter,  and 
make  her  believe  that  the  sword  was  his  own,  and  that  he  was 
going  to  be  a  soldier.  There  was  nobody  but  Maggie  who 
would  be  silly  enough  to  believe  him,  or  whom  he  dared  allow 
to  know  that  he  had  a  sword ;  and  Maggie  was  really  coming 
next  week  to  see  Tom,  before  she  went  to  a  boarding-school 
with  Lucy. 

If  you  think  a  lad  of  thirteen  would  not  have  been  so  child- 
ish, you  must  be  an  exceptionally  wise  man,  who,  although 
you  are  devoted  to  a  civil  calling,  requiring  you  to  look  bland 
rather  than  formidable,  yet  never,  since  you  had  a  beard,  threw 
yourself  into  a  martial  attitude,  and  frowned  before  the  looking- 
glass.  It  is  doubtful  whether  our  soldiers  would  be  maintained 
if  there  were  not  pacific  people  at  home  who  like  to  fancy 
themselves  soldiers.  War,  like  other  dramatic  spectacles, 
might  possibly  cease  for  want  of  a  "  public." 


SCHOOL-TIME.  189 


CHAPTER   V. 


Maggie's  second  visit. 


This  last  breach  between  the  two  lads  was  not  readily 
mended,  and  for  some  time  they  spoke  to  each  other  no  more 
than  was  necessary.  Their  natural  antipathy  of  temperament 
made  resentment  an  easy  passage  to  hatred,  and  in  Philip  the 
transition  seemed  to  have  begun :  there  was  no  malignity  in 
his  disposition,  but  there  was  a  susceptibility  that  made  him 
peculiarly  liable  to  a  strong  sense  of  repulsion.  The  ox  —  we 
may  venture  to  assert  it  on  the  authority  of  a  great  classic  — 
is  not  given  to  use  his  teeth  as  an  instrument  of  attack  ;  and 
Tom  was  an  excellent  bovine  lad,  who  ran  at  questionable  ob- 
jects in  a  truly  ingenious  bovine  manner :  but  he  had  blundered 
on  Philip's  tenderest  point,  and  had  caused  him  as  much  acute 
pain  as  if  he  had  studied  the  means  with  the  nicest  precision 
and  the  most  envenomed  spite.  Tom  saw  no  reason  why  they 
should  not  make  up  this  quarrel  as  they  had  done  many  others, 
by  behaving  as  if  nothing  had  happened ;  for  though  he  had 
never  before  said  to  Philip  that  his  father  was  a  rogue,  this 
idea  had  so  habitually  made  part  of  his  feeling  as  to  the  rela- 
tion between  himself  and  his  dubious  schoolfellow,  whom  he 
could  neither  like  nor  dislike,  that  the  mere  utterance  did  not 
make  such  an  epoch  to  him  as  it  did  to  Philip.  And  he  had  a 
right  to  say  so  when  Philip  hectored  over  him,  and  called  him 
names.  But  perceiving  that  his  first  advances  towards  amity 
were  not  met,  he  relapsed  into  his  least  favorable  disposition 
towards  Philip,  and  resolved  never  to  appeal  to  him  either 
about  drawing  or  exercises  again.  They  were  only  so  far  civil 
to  each  other  as  was  necessary  to  prevent  their  state  of  feud 
from  being  observed  by  Mr.  Stelling,  who  would  have  "  put 
down  "  such  nonsense  Avith  great  vigor. 

When  Maggie  came,  however,  she  could  not  help  looking  with 
growing  interest  at  the  new  schoolfellow,  although  he  was  the  son 
of  that  wicked  Lawyer  Wakem,  who  made  her  father  so  angry. 


100  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

She  had  arrived  in  the  middle  of  school-hours,  and  had  sat  by 
while  Philip  went  through  his  lessons  with  Mr.  Stelling.  Tom, 
some  weeks  ago,  had  sent  her  word  that  Philip  knew  no  end 
of  stories  —  not  stupid  stories  like  hers  ;  and  she  was  con- 
vinced now  from  her  own  observation  that  he  must  be  very 
clever  :  she  hoped  he  would  think  her  rather  clever  too,  when 
she  came  to  talk  to  him.  Maggie,  moreover,  had  rather  a  ten- 
derness for  deformed  things ;  she  preferred  the  wry-necked 
lambs,  because  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  lambs  which  were 
quite  strong  and  well  made  would  n't  mind  so  much  about  be- 
ing petted ;  and  she  was  especially  fond  of  petting  objects  that 
would  think  it  very  delightful  to  be  petted  by  her.  She  loved 
Tom  very  dearly,  but  she  often  wished  that  he  cared  more  about 
her  loving  him. 

"  I  think  Philip  Wakem  seems  a  nice  boy,  Tom,"  she  said, 
when  they  went  out  of  the  study  together  into  the  garden,  to 
pass  the  interval  before  dinner.  "  He  could  n't  choose  his 
father,  you  know;  and  I've  read  of  very  bad  men  who  had 
good  sons,  as  well  as  good  parents  who  had  bad  children.  And 
if  Philip  is  good,  I  think  we  ought  to  be  the  more  sorry  for 
him  because  his  father  is  not  a  good  man.  You  like  him,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  's  a  queer  fellow,"  said  Tom,  curtly,  "  and  he  's  as 
sulky  as  can  be  with  me,  because  I  told  him  his  father  was  a 
rogue.  And  I  'd  a  right  to  tell  him  so,  for  it  was  true  —  and 
he  began  it,  with  calling  me  names.  But  you  stop  here  by 
yourself  a  bit,  Magsie,  will  you  ?  I  've  got  something  I  want 
to  do  iip-stairs." 

"  Can't  I  go  too  ?  "  said  INIaggie,  who  in  this  first  day  of 
meeting  again,  loved  Tom's  shadow. 

"No,  it's  something  I  '11  tell  you  about  by-and-by,  not  yet," 
said  Tom,  skipping  away. 

In  the  afternoon  the  boys  were  at  their  books  in  the  study, 
preparing  the  morrow's  lessons,  that  they  might  have  a  holi- 
day in  the  evening  in  honor  of  Maggie's  arrival.  Tom  was 
hanging  over  his  Latin  Grammar,  moving  his  lips  inaudibly  like 
a  strict  but  impatient  Catholic  repeating  his  tale  of  paternos- 
ters ;  and  Philip,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  was  busy  with 


SCHOOL-TIME.  191 

two  volumes,  with  a  look  of  contented  diligence  that  excited 
Maggie's  curiosity  ;  he  did  not  look  at  all  as  if  he  were  learn- 
ing a  lesson.  She  sat  on  a  low  stool  at  nearly  a  right  angle 
with  the  two  boys,  watching  first  one  and  then  the  other  ;  and 
Philip,  looking  off  his  book  once  towards  the  fireplace,  caught 
the  pair  of  questioning  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  He  thought 
this  sister  of  TuUiver's  seemed  a  nice  little  thing,  quite  unlike 
her  brother ;  ht*  wished  he  had  a  little  sister.  What  was  it,  he 
wondered,  that  made  Maggie's  dark  eyes  remind  him  of  the 
stories  about  princesses  being  turned  into  animals  ?  .  .  .  I 
think  it  was  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  unsatisfied  intelligence, 
and  unsatisfied,  beseeching  affection. 

"I  say,  Magsie,"  said  Tom  at  last,  shutting  his  books  and 
putting  them  away  with  the  energy  and  decision  of  a  perfect 
master  in  the  art  of  leaving  off,  "  I  've  done  my  lessons  now. 
Come  up-stairs  with  me." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Maggie,  when  they  were  outside  the 
door,  a  slight  suspicion  crossing  her  mind  as  she  remembered 
Tom's  preliminary  visit  up-stairs.  "  It  is  n't  a  trick  you  're 
going  to  play  me,  now  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  in  his  most  coaxing  tone  ;  "  it 's 
something  you'll  like  ever  so  J' 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  neck,  and  she  put  hers  round  his 
waist,  anil,  twined  together  in  this  way,  they  went  up-stairs. 

"  I  say,  Magsie,  you  must  not  tell  anybody,  you  know,"  said 
Tom,  "  else  I  shall  get  fifty  lines." 

"  Is  it  alive  ?  "  said  Maggie,  whose  imagination  had  settled  for 
the  moment  on  the  idea  that  Tom  kept  a  ferret  clandestinely. 

"  Ob,  I  shan't  tell  you,"  said  he.  "  Now  you  go  into  that 
corner  and  hide  your  face,  while  I  reach  it  out,"  he  added,  as 
he  locked  the  bedroom  door  behind  them.  "  I  '11  tell  you  when 
to  turn  round.     You  must  n't  squeal  out,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  but  if  you  frighten  me,  I  shall,"  said  Maggie,  begin- 
ning to  look  rather  serious. 

"  You  won't  be  frightened,  you  silly  thing,"  said  Tom.  '*  Go 
and  hide  your  face,  and  mind  you  don't  peep." 

"  Of  course  I  shan't  peep,"  said  Maggie,  disdainfully ;  and  she 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  like  a  person  of  strict  honor. 


192  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

But  Tom  looked  round  warily  as  he  walked  to  the  closet ; 
then  he  stepped  into  the  narrow  space,  and  almost  closed  the 
door.  Maggie  kept  her  face  buried  without  the  aid  of  princi- 
ple, for  in  that  dream-suggestive  attitude  she  had  soon  forgot- 
ten where  she  was,  and  her  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  poor 
deformed  boy,  who  was  so  clever,  when  Tom  called  out,  "  Now 
then,  Magsie !  " 

Nothing  but  long  meditation  and  preconcerted  arrangement 
of  effects  could  have  enabled  Tom  to  present  so  striking  a 
figure  as  he  did  to  Maggie  when  she  looked  up.  Dissatisfied 
with  the  pacific  aspect  of  a  face  which  had  no  more  than  the 
faintest  hint  of  flaxen  eyebrow,  together  with  a  pair  of  amiable 
blue-gray  eyes  and  round  pink  cheeks  that  refused  to  look  for- 
midable, let  him  frown  as  he  would  before  the  looking-glass  — 
(Philip  had  once  told  him  of  a  man  who  had  a  horse-shoe 
frown,  and  Tom  had  tried  with  all  his  frowning-might  to 
make  a  horse-shoe  on  his  forehead)  —  he  had  had  recourse 
to  that  unfailing  source  of  the  terrible,  burnt  cork,  and  had 
made  himself  a  pair  of  black  eyebrows  that  met  in  a  satisfac 
tory  manner  over  his  nose,  and  were  matched  by  a  less  care- 
fully adjusted  blackness  about  the  chin.  He  had  wound  a  red 
handkerchief  round  his  cloth  cap  to  give  it  the  air  of  a  tur- 
ban, and  his  red  comforter  across  his  breast  as  a  scarf  —  an 
amount  of  red  which,  with  the  tremendous  frown  on  his  brow, 
and  the  decision  with  which  he  grasped  the  sword,  as  he 
held  it  with  its  point  resting  on  the  ground,  would  suffice  to 
convey  an  approximative  idea  of  his  fierce  and  bloodthirsty 
disposition. 

Maggie  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment,  and  Tom  enjoyed 
that  moment  keenly ;  but  in  the  next  she  laughed,  clapped 
her  hands  together,  and  said,  "  Oh,  Tom,  you  've  made  yourself 
like  Bluebeard  at  the  show." 

It  was  clear  she  had  not  been  struck  with  the  presence  of 
the  sword  —  it  was  not  unsheathed.  Her  frivolous  mind  re- 
quired a  more  direct  appeal  to  its  sense  of  the  terrible,  and 
Tom  prepared  for  his  master-stroke.  Frowning  with  a  double 
amount  of  intention,  if  not  of  corrugation,  he  (carefully)  drew 
the  sword  from  its  sheath,  and  pointed  it  at  Maggie. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  193 

"  Oh,  Tom,  please  don't,"  exclaimed  Maggie,  iu  a  tone  of 
suppressed  dread,  shrinking  away  from  him  into  the  opposite 
Isomer.  "  I  shall  scream  —  I  'm  sure  I  shall !  Oh,  don't !  I 
wish  I'd  never  come  up-stairs  ! " 

The  corners  of  Tom's  mouth  showed  an  inclination  to  a  smile 
of  complacenc}'  that  was  immediately  checked  as  inconsistent 
with  the  severity  of  a  great  warrior.  Slowly  he  let  down  the 
scabbard  on  the  floor,  lest  it  should  make  too  much  noise,  and 
then  said,  sternly  — 

"  I  'm  the  Duke  of  Wellington  !  March  !  "  stamping  forward 
with  the  right  leg  a  little  bent,  and  the  sword  still  pointing 
towards  Maggie,  who,  trembling,  and  with  tear-filled  eyes, 
got  upon  the  bed,  as  the  only  means  of  widening  the  space 
between  them. 

Tom,  happy  in  this  spectator  of  his  military  performances, 
even  though  the  spectator  was  only  Maggie,  proceeded,  with 
the  utmost  exertion  of  his  force,  to  such  an  exhibition  of  the 
cut  and  thrust  as  would  necessarily  be  expected  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington. 

"  Tom,  I  will  not  bear  it  —  I  will  scream,"  said  Maggie,  at 
the  first  movement  of  the  sword.  "  You  '11  hurt  yourself ; 
you  '11  cut  your  head  off !  " 

"  One  —  two,"  said  Tom,  resolutely,  though  at  "  two  "  his 
wrist  trembled  a  little.  "  Three  "  came  more  slowly,  and 
with  it  the  sword  swung  downwards,  and  ]\raggie  gave  a  loud 
shriek.  The  sword  had  fallen,  with  its  edge  on  Tom's  foot, 
and  in  a  moment  after  he  had  fallen  too.  Maggie  leaped  from 
the  bed,  still  shrieking,  and  immediately  there  was  a  rush  of 
footsteps  towards  the  room.  Mr.  Stelling,  from  his  up-stairs 
study,  was  the  first  to  enter.  He  found  both  the  children  on 
the  floor.  Tom  had  fainted,  and  Maggie  was  shaking  him  by 
the  collar  of  his  jacket,  screaming,  with  wild  eyes.  She 
thought  he  was  dead,  poor  child  !  and  yet  she  shook  him,  as 
if  that  would  bring  him  back  to  life.  In  another  minute  she 
was  sobbing  with  joy  because  Tom  had  opened  his  eyes  :  she 
could  n't  sorrow  yet  that  he  had  hurt  his  foot  —  it  seemed  as 
if  all  happiness  lay  in  his  being  alive. 

TOL.   II.  13 


194  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 


CHAPTER  VL 

A     LOVE     SCENE. 

Poor  Tom  bore  his  severe  pain  heroically,  and  was  resolute 
in  not  "  telling "  of  Mr.  Poulter  more  than  was  unavoidable : 
the  five-shilling  piece  remained  a  secret  even  to  Maggie.  But 
there  was  a  terrible  dread  weighing  on  his  mind  —  so  terrible 
that  he  dared  not  even  ask  the  question  which  might  bring 
the  fatal  "  yes "  —  he  dared  not  ask  the  surgeon  or  Mr. 
Stelling,  "  Shall  I  be  lame,  sir  ?  "  He  mastered  himself  so 
as  not  to  cry  out  at  the  pain,  but  when  his  foot  had  been 
dressed,  and  he  was  left  alone  with  Maggie  seated  by  his  bed- 
side, the  children  sobbed  together  with  their  heads  laid  on  the 
same  pillow.  Tom  was  thinking  of  himself  walking  about  on 
crutches,  like  the  wheelwright's  son ;  and  Maggie,  who  did 
not  guess  what  was  in  his  mind,  sobbed  for  company.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  the  surgeon  or  to  Mr.  Stelling  to  anticipate 
this  dread  in  Tom's  mind,  and  to  reassure  him  by  hopeful 
words.  But  Philip  watched  the  surgeon  out  of  the  house, 
and  waylaid  Mr.  Stelling  to  ask  the  very  question  that  Tom 
had  not  dared  to  ask  for  himself. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  —  but  does  Mr.  Askern  say  Tulliver 
will  be  lame  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  oh  no,"  said  Mr.  Stelling,  "  not  permanently,  only 
for  a  little  while." 

*'  Did  he  tell  Tulliver  so,  sir,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  No  :  nothing  was  said  to  him  on  the  subject." 

"  Then  may  I  go  and  tell  him,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  :  now  you  mention  it,  I  dare  say  he  may 
be  troubling  about  that.  Go  to  his  bedroom,  but  be  very 
quiet  at  present." 

It  had  been  Philip's  first  thought  when  he  heard  of  the 
accident  —  "  Will  Tulliver  be  lame  ?  It  will  be  very  hard  for 
him  if  he  is"  —  and  Tom's  hitherto  unforgiven  offences  were 
washed  out  by  that  pity.     I'hilip  felt  that  they  were  no  longer 


SCHOOL-TIME.  195 

in  a  state  of  repulsion,  but  were  being  drawn  into  a  common 
current  of  suffering  and  sad  privation.  His  imagination  did 
not  dwell  on  the  outward  calamity  and  its  future  effect  on 
Tom's  life,  but  it  made  vividly  present  to  him  the  probable 
state  of  Tom's  feeling.  Philip  had  only  lived  fourteen  years, 
but  those  years  had,  most  of  them,  been  steeped  in  the  sense 
of  a  lot  irremediably  hard. 

"Mr.  Askern  says  you'll  soon  be  all  right  again,  Tulliver, 
did  you  know  ?  "  he  said,  rather  timidly,  as  he  stepped  gently 
up  to  Tom's  bed.  "  I  've  just  been  to  ask  Mr.  Stelling,  and  he 
says  you  '11  walk  as  well  as  ever  again  by-and-by." 

Tom  looked  up  with  that  momentary  stopping  of  the  breath 
which  comes  with  a  sudden  joy  ;  then  he  gave  a  long  sigh, 
and  turned  his  blue-gray  eyes  straight  on  Philip's  face,  as  he 
had  not  done  for  a  fortnight  or  more.  As  for  Maggie,  this  inti- 
mation of  a  possibility  she  had  not  thought  of  before,  affected 
her  as  a  new  trouble  ;  the  bare  idea  of  Tom's  being  always 
lame  overpowered  the  assurance  that  such  a  misfortune  was 
not  likely  to  befall  him,  and  she  clung  to  him  and  cried 
afresh. 

"  Don't  be  a  little  silly,  Magsie,"  said  Tom,  tenderly,  feeling 
very  brave  now.     "  I  shall  soon  get  well." 

"  Good-by,  Tulliver,"  said  Philip,  putting  out  his  small, 
delicate  hand,  which  Tom  clasped  immediately  with  his  more 
substantial  fingers. 

"  I  say,"  said  Tom,  "  ask  Mr.  Stelling  to  let  you  come  and 
sit  with  me  sometimes,  till  I  get  up  again,  Wakem  —  and  tell 
me  about  Robert  Bruce,  you  know." 

After  that,  Philip  spent  all  his  time  out  of  school-hours 
with  Tom  and  Maggie.  Tom  liked  to  hear  fighting  stories  as 
much  as  ever,  but  he  insisted  strongly  on  the  fact  that  those 
great  fighters,  who  did  so  many  wonderful  things  and  came 
off  unhurt,  wore  excellent  armor  from  head  to  foot,  which 
made  fighting  easy  work,  he  considered.  He  should  not  have 
hurt  his  foot  if  he  had  had  an  iron  shoe  on.  He  listened  with 
great  interest  to  a  new  story  of  Philip's  about  a  man  who  had 
a  very  bad  wound  in  his  foot,  and  cried  out  so  dreadfully  with 
the  pain  that  his  friends  could,  bear  with  him  no  longer,  but 


196  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

put  him  ashore  ou  a  desert  island,  with  nothing  but  some 
wonderful  poisoned  arrows  to  kill  animals  with  for  food. 

"  I  did  n't  roar  out  a  bit,  you  know,"  Tom  said,  "  and  I  dare 
say  my  foot  was  as  bad  as  his.     It 's  cowardly  to  roar." 

But  Maggie  would  have  it  that  when  anything  hurt  you 
very  much,  it  was  quite  permissible  to  cry  out,  and  it  was 
cruel  of  people  not  to  bear  it.  She  wanted  to  know  if  Phi- 
loctetes  had  a  sister,  and  why  she  did  n't  go  with  him  on  the 
desert  island  and  take  care  of  him. 

One  day,  soon  after  Philip  had  told  this  story,  he  and 
Maggie  were  in  the  study  alone  together  while  Tom's  foot  was 
being  dressed.  Philip  was  at  his  books,  and  Maggie,  after 
sauntering  idly  round  the  room,  not  caring  to  do  anything  in 
particular,  because  she  would  soon  go  to  Tom  again,  went  and 
leaned  on  the  table  near  Philip  to  see  what  he  was  doing,  for 
they  were  quite  old  friends  now,  and  perfectly  at  home  with 
each  other. 

"  What  are  you  reading  about  in  Greek  ?  "  she  said.  "  It 's 
poetry  —  I  can  see  that,  because  the  lines  are  so  short." 

"It's  about  Philoctetes — the  lame  man  I  was  telling  you 
of  yesterday,"  he  answered,  resting  his  head  on  his  hand, 
and  looking  at  her,  as  if  he  were  not  at  all  sorry  to  be  inter- 
rupted. Maggie,  in  her  absent  way,  continued  to  lean  for- 
ward, resting  on  her  arms  and  moving  her  feet  about,  while 
her  dark  eyes  got  more  and  more  fixed  and  vacant,  as  if  she 
had  quite  forgotten  Philip  and  his  book. 

"  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  after  a  minute  or  two,  still  leaning 
on  his  elbow  and  looking  at  her,  "  if  you  had  had  a  brother 
like  me,  do  you  think  you  should  have  loved  him  as  well  as 
Tom  ?  " 

Maggie  started  a  little  on  being  roused  from  her  reverie, 
and  said,  "  What  ?  "     Philip  repeated  his  question. 

"Oh  yes,  better,"  she  answered,  immodiatoly.  "No,  not 
better;  because  I  don't  think  T  cou/d  lov(;  you  better  than 
Tom.     But  I  should  be  so  sorry  —  su  sorry  for  yuu." 

Philip  colored  :  he  had  meant  to  imply,  would  she  love 
him  as  well  in  spite  of  his  deformity,  and  yet  when  she 
alluded  to  it  so  plainly,  he  winced  under  her  pity.     Maggie, 


SCHOOL-TIME.  197 

young  as  sLe  was,  felt  her  mistake.  Hitherto  she  had  in- 
stinctively behaved  as  if  she  were  quite  unconscious  of 
Philip's  deformity  :  her  own  keen  sensitiveness  and  experi- 
ence under  family  criticism  sufficed  to  teach  her  this  as  well 
as  if  she  had  beeu  directed  by  the  most  finished  breeding. 

"  But  you  are  so  very  clever,  Philip,  and  you  can  play  and 
sing,"  she  added,  quickly.  "I  wish  you  were  my  brother. 
I  'm  very  fond  of  you.  And  you  would  stay  at  home  with  me 
when  Tom  went  out,  and  you  would  teach  me  everything  — 
wouldn't  you?     Greek  and  everything?" 

"  But  you  '11  go  away  soon,  and  go  to  school,  Maggie,"  said 
Philip,  "and  then  you'll  forget  all  about  me,  and  not  care 
for  me  any  more.  And  then  I  shall  see  you  when  you  're 
grown  up,  and  you  '11  hardly  take  any  notice  of  me." 

"Oh  no,  I  shan't  forget  you,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Maggie,  shak- 
ing her  head  very  seriously.  "  I  never  forget  anything,  and  I 
think  about  everybody  when  I'm  away  from  them.  I  think 
about  poor  Yap  —  he  's  got  a  lump  in  his  throat,  and  Luke 
says  he  '11  die.  Only  don't  you  tell  Tom,  because  it  will  vex 
him  so.  You  never  saw  Yap:  he's  a  queer  little  dog  —  no- 
body cares  about  him  but  Tom  and  me." 

"Do  you  care  as  much  about  me  as  you  do  about  Yap, 
Maggie  ? "  said  Philip,  smiling  rather  sadly. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  should  think  so,"  said  Maggie,  laughing. 

"  I  'm  very  fond  of  you,  Maggie  ;  I  shall  never  forget  yon" 
said  Philip,  "  and  when  I  'm  very  unhappy,  I  shall  always  think 
of  you,  and  wish  I  had  a  sister  with  dark  eyes,  just  like  yours." 

"Why  do  you  like  my  eyes?"  said  Maggie,  well  pleased. 
She  had  never  heard  any  one  but  her  father  speak  of  her  eyes 
as  if  they  had  merit. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Philip.  "They're  not  like  any  other 
eyes.  They  seem  trying  to  speak  —  trying  to  speak  kindly. 
I  don't  like  other  people  to  look  at  me  much,  but  I  like  you  to 
look  at  me,  Maggie." 

"Why,  I  think  you're  fonder  of  mo  than  Tom  is,"  said 
Maggie,  rather  sorrowfully.  Then,  wondering  how  she  could 
convince  Philip  that  she  could  like  him  just  as  well,  although 
he  was  crooked,  she  said  — 


198  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

*'  Should  you  like  me  to  kiss  you,  as  I  do  Tom.  I  will,  if 
you  like." 

"Yes,  very  much  :  nobody  kisses  me." 

Maggie  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  quite 
earnestly. 

"  There  now,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  always  remember  you,  and 
kiss  you  when  I  see  you  again,  if  it 's  ever  so  long.  But  I  '11 
go  now,  because  I  think  Mr.  Askern  's  done  with  Tom's  foot." 

When  their  father  came  the  second  time,  Maggie  said  to 
him,  "  Oh,  father,  Philip  Wakem  is  so  very  good  to  Tom  — 
he  is  such  a  clever  boy,  and  I  do  love  him.  And  you  love 
him  too,  Tom,  don't  you  ?  Say  you  love  him,"  she  added, 
entreatingly. 

Tom  colored  a  little  as  he  looked  at  his  father,  and  said,  "  I 
shan't  be  friends  with  him  when  I  leave  school,  father ;  but 
we  've  made  it  up  now,  since  my  foot  has  been  bad,  and  he  's 
taught  me  to  play  at  draughts,  and  I  can  beat  him." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  if  he 's  good  to  you,  try 
and  make  him  amends,  and  be  good  to  him.  He  's  a  poor 
crooked  creatur,  and  takes  after  his  dead  mother.  But  don't 
you  be  getting  too  thick  with  him  —  he 's  got  his  father's 
blood  in  him  too.  Ay,  ay,  the  gray  colt  may  chance  to  kick 
like  his  black  sire." 

The  jarring  natures  of  the  tAVO  boys  effected  what  Mr.  Tul- 
liver's  admonition  alone  might  have  failed  to  effect :  in  spite 
of  Philip's  new  kindness,  and  Tom's  answering  regard  in  this 
time  of  his  trouble,  they  never  became  close  friends.  When 
Maggie  was  gone,  and  when  Tom  by-and-by  began  to  walk 
about  as  usual,  the  friendly  warmth  that  had  been  kindled  by 
pity  and  gratitude  died  out  by  degrees,  and  left  them  in  their 
old  relation  to  each  other.  Philip  was  often  peevish  and 
contemptuous  ;  and  Tom's  more  specific  and  kindly  impres- 
sions gradually  melted  into  the  old  background  of  suspicion 
and  dislike  towards  him  as  a  queer  fellow,  a  humpback,  and 
the  son  of  a  rogue.  If  boys  and  men  are  to  be  welded  to- 
gether in  the  glow  of  transient  feeling,  they  must  be  made  of 
metal  that  wiU  mix,  else  they  inevitably  fall  asunder  when 
the  heat  dies  out. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  199 


CHAPTEE   VII. 

THE   GOLDEN    GATES   ARE    PASSED. 

So  Tom  went  on  even  to  the  fifth  half-year  —  till  he  waa 
turned  sixteen  —  at  King's  Lorton,  while  Maggie  was  growing 
with  a  rapidity  which  her  aunts  considered  highly  reprehen- 
sible, at  Miss  Firniss's  boarding-school  in  the  ancient  town  of 
Laceham  on  the  Floss,  with  cousin  Lucy  for  her  companion. 
In  her  early  letters  to  Tom  she  had  always  sent  her  love  to 
Philip,  and  asked  many  questions  about  him,  which  were 
answered  by  brief  sentences  about  Tom's  toothache,  and  a 
turf-house  which  he  was  helping  to  build  in  the  garden,  with 
other  items  of  that  kind.  She  was  pained  to  hear  Tom  say  in 
the  holidays  that  Philip  was  as  queer  as  ever  again,  and  often 
cross :  they  were  no  longer  very  good  friends,  she  perceived ; 
and  when  she  reminded  Tom  that  he  ought  always  to  love 
Philip  for  being  so  good  to  him  when  his  foot  was  bad,  he 
answered,  "  Well,  it  is  n't  my  fault :  I  don't  do  anything  to 
him."  She  hardly  ever  saw  Philip  during  the  remainder  of 
their  school-life ;  in  the  Midsummer  holidays  he  was  always 
away  at  the  seaside,  and  at  Christmas  she  could  only  meet 
him  at  long  intervals  in  the  streets  of  St.  Ogg's.  When  they 
did  meet,  she  remembered  her  promise  to  kiss  him,  but,  as  a 
young  lady  who  had  been  at  a  boarding-school,  she  knew  now 
that  such  a  greeting  was  out  of  the  question,  and  Philip  would 
not  expect  it.  The  promise  was  void,  like  so  many  other 
sweet,  illusory  promises  of  cur  childhood;  void  as  promises 
made  in  Eden  before  the  seasons  were  divided,  and  when  the 
starry  blossoms  grew  side  by  side  with  the  ripening  peach  — 
impossible  to  be  fulfilled  when  the  golden  gates  had  been 
passed. 

But  when  their  father  was  actually  engaged  in  the  long- 
threatened  lawsuit,  and  Wakem,  as  the  agent  at  once  of 
Pivart  and  Old  Harry,  was  acting  against  him,  even  Maggie 
felt,  with  some  sadness,  that  they  were  not  likely  ever  to  have 


200  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

any  intimacy  with  Philip  again  ;  the  very  name  of  Wakem 
made  her  father  angry,  and  she  had  once  heard  him  say,  that 
if  that  crook-backed  son  lived  to  inherit  his  father's  ill-gotten 
gains,  there  would  be  a  curse  upon  him.  "  Have  as  little  to 
do  with  him  at  school  as  you  can,  my  lad,"  he  said  to  Tom ; 
and  the  command  was  obeyed  the  more  easily  because  Mr. 
Stelling  by  this  time  had  two  additional  pupils ;  for  though 
this  gentleman's  rise  in  the  world  was  not  of  that  meteor-like 
rapidity  which  the  admirers  of  his  extemporaneous  eloquence 
had  expected  for  a  preacher  whose  voice  demanded  so  wide  a 
sphere,  he  had  yet  enough  of  growing  prosperity  to  enable 
him  to  increase  his  expenditure  in  continued  disproportion  to 
his  income. 

As  for  Tom's  school  course,  it  went  on  with  mill-like  monot- 
ony, his  mind  continuing  to  move  with  a  slow,  half-stifled 
pulse  in  a  medium  of  uninteresting  or  unintelligible  ideas. 
But  each  vacation  he  brought  home  larger  and  larger  drawings 
with  the  satiny  rendering  of  landscape,  and  water-colors  in 
vivid  greens,  together  with  manuscript  books  full  of  exercises 
and  problems,  in  which  the  handwriting  was  all  the  finer  be- 
cause he  gave  his  whole  mind  to  it.  Each  vacation  he  brought 
home  a  new  book  or  two,  indicating  his  progress  through  dif- 
ferent stages  of  history,  Christian  doctrine,  and  Latin  litera- 
ture ;  and  that  passage  was  not  entirely  without  result,  besides 
the  possession  of  the  books.  Tom's  ear  and  tongue  had  become 
accustomed  to  a  great  many  words  and  phrases  which  are 
understood  to  be  signs  of  an  educated  condition ;  and  though 
he  had  never  really  applied  his  mind  to  any  one  of  his  lessons, 
the  lessons  had  left  a  deposit  of  vague,  fragmentary,  ineffect- 
ual notions.  Mr.  Tulliver,  seeing  signs  of  acquirement  beyond 
the  reach  of  his  own  criticism,  thought  it  was  probably  all 
right  with  Tom's  education :  he  observed,  indeed,  that  there 
were  no  maps,  and  not  enough  "  summing ; "  but  he  made  no 
formnl  complaint  to  Mr.  Stelliug.  It  was  a  puzzling  business, 
this  schooling;  and  if  he  took  Tom  away,  where  could  he  send 
him  with  better  effect  ? 

By  the  time  Tom  had  reached  his  last  quarter  at  King's 
Lorton,  the  years  had  made  striking  changes  in  him  since  the 


SCHOOL-TIME.  201 

day  we  saw  him  returning  from  Mr.  Jacobs's  academy.  He 
was  a  tall  youth  now,  carrying  himself  without  the  least  awk- 
wardness, and  speaking  without  more  shyness  than  was  a 
bicoming  symptom  of  blended  diffidence  and  pride :  he  wore 
his  tail-coat  and  his  stand-up  collars,  and  watched  the  down 
on  his  lip  with  eager  impatience,  looking  every  day  at  his 
virgin  razor,  with  which  he  had  provided  himself  in  the  last 
holidays.  Philip  had  already  left  —  at  the  autumn  quarter  — 
that  he  might  go  to  the  south  for  the  winter,  for  the  sake  of 
his  health ;  and  this  change  helped  to  give  Tom  the  unsettled, 
exultant  feeling  that  usually  belongs  to  the  last  months  before 
leaving  school.  This  quarter,  too,  there  was  some  hope  of  his 
father's  lawsuit  being  decided :  that  made  the  prospect  of 
home  more  entirely  pleasurable.  For  Tom,  who  had  gathered 
his  view  of  the  case  from  his  father's  conversation,  had  no 
doubt  that  Pivart  would  be  beaten. 

Tom  had  not  heard  anything  from  home  for  some  weeks  — 
a  fact  which  did  not  surprise  him,  for  his  father  and  mother 
were  not  apt  to  manifest  their  affection  in  unnecessary  letters 
—  when,  to  his  great  surprise,  on  the  morning  of  a  dark  cold 
day  near  the  end  of  November,  he  was  told,  soon  after  entering 
the  study  at  nine  o'clock,  that  his  sister  was  in  the  drawing- 
room.  It  was  Mrs.  Stelling  who  had  come  into  the  study  to 
tell  him,  and  she  left  him  to  enter  the  drawing-room  alone. 

Maggie,  too,  was  tall  now,  with  braided  and  coiled  hair :  she 
was  almost  as  tall  as  Tom,  though  she  was  only  thirteen ;  and 
she  really  looked  older  than  he  did  at  that  moment.  She  had 
thrown  ofE  her  bonnet,  her  heavy  braids  were  pushed  back 
from  her  forehead,  as  if  it  would  not  bear  that  extra  load,  and 
her  young  face  had  a  strangely  worn  look,  as  her  eyes  turned 
anxiously  towards  the  door.  When  Tom  entered  she  did  not 
speak,  but  only  went  up  to  him,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him  earnestly.  He  was  used  to  various  moods  of 
hers,  and  felt  no  alarm  at  the  unusual  seriousness  of  her 
greeting. 

"  Why,  how  is  it  you  're  come  so  early  this  cold  morning, 
Maggie  ?  Did  you  come  in  the  gig  ?  "  said  Tom,  as  she  backed 
towards  the  sofa,  and  drew  him  to  her  side. 


202  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"No,  I  came  by  the  coach.  I  've  walked  from  the  turn- 
pike." 

"  But  how  is  it  you  're  not  at  school  ?  The  holidays  have 
not  begun  yet  ?  " 

"  Father  wanted  me  at  home,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  slight 
trembling  of  the  lip.  "  I  came  home  three  or  four  days 
ago." 

"Isn't  my  father  well?"  said  Tom,  rather  anxiously. 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Maggie.  "•  He 's  very  unhappy,  Tom. 
The  lawsuit  is  ended,  and  I  came  to  tell  you  because  I  thought 
it  would  be  better  for  you  to  know  it  before  you  came  home, 
and  I  did  n't  like  only  to  send  you  a  letter." 

"  My  father  has  n't  lost  ?  "  said  Tom,  hastily,  springing  from 
the  sofa,  and  standing  before  Maggie  with  his  hands  suddenly 
thrust  in  his  pockets. 

"Yes,  dear  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  looking  up  at  him  with 
trembling. 

Tom  was  silent  a  minute  or  two,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
floor.     Then  he  said  — 

"  My  father  will  have  to  pay  a  good  deal  of  money,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie,  rather  faintly. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  Tom,  bravely,  not  translating 
the  loss  of  a  large  sum  of  money  into  any  tangible  results. 
"But  my  father's  very  much  vexed,  I  dare  say  ?  "  he  added, 
looking  at  Maggie,  and  thinking  that  her  agitated  face  was 
only  part  of  her  girlish  way  of  taking  things. 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie,  again  faintly.  Then,  urged  to  fuller 
speech  by  Tom's  freedom  from  apprehension,  she  said  loudly 
and  rapidly,  as  if  the  words  would  burst  from  her,  "  Oh,  Tom, 
he  will  lose  the  mill  and  the  land,  and  everything}  he  will 
have  nothing  left." 

Tom's  eyes  flashed  out  one  look  of  surprise  at  her,  before 
he  turned  pale,  and  trembled  visibly.  He  said  nothing,  but 
sat  down  on  the  sofa  again,  looking  vaguely  out  of  the  opposite 
window. 

Anxiety  about  the  future  had  never  entered  Tom's  mind. 
His  father  had  always  ridden  a  good  horse,  kept  a  good  house, 
and  had  the  cheerful,  confident  air  of  a  man  who  has  plenty  of 


SCHOOL-TIME.  203 

property  to  fall  back  upon.  Tom  had  never  dreamed  that  his 
father  would  ''  fail ;  "  that  was  a  form  of  misfortune  which  he 
had  always  heard  spoken  of  as  a  deep  disgrace,  and  disgrace 
\vas  an  idea  that  he  could  not  associate  with  any  of  his  rela- 
tions, least  of  all  with  his  father.  A  proud  sense  of  family 
respectability  was  part  of  the  very  air  Tom  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  in.  He  knew  there  were  people  in  St.  Ogg's  who 
made  a  show  without  money  to  support  it,  and  he  had  always 
heard  such  people  spoken  of  by  his  own  friends  with  contempt 
and  reprobation.  He  had  a  strong  belief,  which  was  a  lifelong 
habit,  and  required  no  definite  evidence  to  rest  on,  that  his 
father  could  spend  a  great  deal  of  money  if  he  chose;  and 
since  his  education  at  Mr.  Stelling's  had  given  him  a  more  ex- 
pensive view  of  life,  he  had  often  thought  that  when  he  got 
older  he  would  make  a  figure  in  the  world,  with  his  horse  and 
dogs  and  saddle,  and  other  accoutrements  of  a  fine  young  man, 
and  show  himself  equal  to  any  of  his  contemporaries  at  St. 
Ogg's,  who  might  consider  themselves  a  grade  above  him  in 
society,  because  their  fathers  were  professional  men,  or  had 
large  oil-mills.  As  to  the  prognostics  and  headshaking  of  his 
aunts  and  uncles,  they  had  never  produced  the  least  effect  on 
him,  except  to  make  him  think  that  aunts  and  uncles  were  dis- 
agreeable society :  he  had  heard  them  find  fault  in  much  the 
same  way  as  long  as  he  could  remember.  His  father  knew 
better  than  they  did. 

The  down  had  come  on  Tom's  lip,  yet  his  thoughts  and  ex- 
pectations had  been  hitherto  only  the  reproduction,  in  changed 
forms,  of  the  boyish  dreams  in  which  he  had  lived  three  years 
ago.     He  was  awakened  now  with  a  violent  shock. 

Maggie  was  frightened  at  Tom's  pale,  trembling  silence. 
There  was  something  else  to  tell  him  —  something  worse. 
She  threw  her  arms  round  him  at  last,  and  said,  with  a  half 
sob  — 

"  Oh,  Tom  —  dear,  dear  Tom,  don't  fret  too  much  —  try  and 
bear  it  well." 

Tom  turned  his  cheek  passively  to  meet  her  entreating  kisses, 
and  there  gathered  a  moisture  in  his  eyes,  which  he  just  rubbed 
away   with   his   hand.      The   action    seemed    to    rouse    him. 


204  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

for  he  shook  himself  and  said,  "I  shall  go  home  with  you, 
Maggie.     Did  n't  my  father  say  I  was  to  go  ?  " 

"  No,  Tom,  father  did  n't  wish  it,"  said  Maggie,  her  anxiety 
about  his  feeling  helping  her  to  master  her  agitation.  What 
would  he  do  when  she  told  him  all  ?  "  But  mother  wants  you 
to  come  —  poor  mother  !  —  she  cries  so.  Oh,  Tom,  it 's  very 
dreadful  at  home." 

Maggie's  lips  grew  whiter,  and  she  began  to  tremble  almost 
as  Tom  had  done.  The  two  poor  things  clung  closer  to  each 
other  —  both  trembling  —  the  one  at  an  unshapen  fear,  the 
other  at  the  image  of  a  terrible  certainty.  When  Maggie 
spoke,  it  was  hardly  above  a  whisper. 

"  And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  poor  father  — " 

Maggie  could  not  utter  it.  But  the  suspense  was  intolerable 
to  Tom.  A  vague  idea  of  going  to  prison,  as  a  consequence  of 
debt,  was  the  shape  his  fears  had  begun  to  take. 

"  Where  's  my  father  ?  "  he  said,  impatiently.  "  Tell  me, 
Maggie." 

"  He  's  at  home,"  said  Maggie,  finding  it  easier  to  reply  to 
that  question.  "  But,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "  not  himself. 
.  .  .  He  fell  off  his  horse.  .  .  ,  He  has  known  nobody  but  me 
ever  since.  .  .  .  He  seems  to  have  lost  his  senses.  .  .  .  Oh, 
father,  father  —  " 

With  these  last  words,  Maggie's  sobs  burst  forth  with  the 
more  violence  for  the  previous  struggle  against  them.  Tom 
felt  that  pressure  of  the  heart  which  forbids  tears  :  he  had  no 
distinct  vision  of  their  troubles  as  Maggie  had,  who  had  been 
at  home  ;  he  only  felt  the  crushing  weight  of  what  seemed  un- 
mitigated misfortune.  He  tightened  his  arm  almost  convul- 
sively round  Maggie  as  she  sobbed,  but  his  face  looked  rigid 
and  tearless  —  his  eyes  blank  —  as  if  a  black  curtain  of  cloud 
had  suddenly  fallen  on  his  path. 

But  Maggie  soon  checked  herself  abruptly :  a  single  thought 
had  acted  on  her  like  a  startling  sound. 

"  We  must  set  out,  Tom  —  we  must  not  stay  —  father  will 
miss  me  —  we  must  be  at  the  turnpike  at  ten  to  meet  the 
coach."  She  said  this  with  hasty  decision,  rubbing  her  eyes, 
and  rising  to  seize  her  bonnet. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  205 

Tom  at  once  felt  the  same  impulse,  and  rose  too.  "  Wait 
a  minute,  Maggie,"  he  said.  ^'  I  must  speak  to  Mr.  Stelling, 
and  then  we  '11  go." 

He  thought  he  must  go  to  the  study  where  the  pupils  were, 
but  on  his  way  he  met  Mr.  Stelling,  who  had  heard  from  his 
wife  that  Maggie  appeared  to  be  in  trouble  when  she  asked  for 
her  brother ;  and,  now  that  he  thought  the  brother  and  sister 
had  been  alone  long  enough,  was  coming  to  inquire  and  offer 
his  sympathy. 

"Please,  sir,  I  must  go  home,"  Tom  said,  abruptly,  as  he 
met  Mr.  Stelling  in  the  passage.  ''  I  must  go  back  with  my 
sister  directly.  My  father's  lost  his  lawsuit — he's  lost  all 
his  property  —  and  he's  very  ill." 

Mr.  Stelling  felt  like  a  kind-hearted  man ;  he  foresaw  a 
probable  money  loss  for  himself,  but  this  had  no  appreciable 
share  in  his  feeling,  while  he  looked  with  grave  pity  at  the 
brother  and  sister  for  whom  youth  and  sorrow  had  begun 
together.  When  he  knew  how  Maggie  had  come,  and  how 
eager  she  was  to  get  home  again,  he  hurried  their  departure, 
only  whispering  something  to  Mrs.  Stelling,  who  had  followed 
him,  and  who  immediately  left  the  room. 

Tom  and  Maggie  were  standing  on  the  door-step,  ready  to 
set  out,  when  Mrs.  Stelling  came  with  a  little  basket,  which 
she  hung  on  Maggie's  arm,  saying,  "  Do  remember  to  eat  some- 
thing on  the  way,  dear."  Maggie's  heart  went  out  towards 
this  woman  whom  she  had  never  liked,  and  she  kissed  her 
silently.  It  was  the  first  sign  within  the  poor  child  of  that 
new  sense  which  is  the  gift  of  sorrow  —  that  susceptibility  to 
the  bare  offices  of  humanity  which  raises  them  into  a  bond  of 
loving  fellowship,  as  to  haggard  men  among  the  icebergs  the 
mere  presence  of  an  ordinary  comrade  stirs  the  deep  fountains 
of  affection. 

Mr.  Stelling  put  his  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder  and  said,  "  God 
bless  you,  my  boy  :  let  me  know  how  you  get  on."  Then  he 
pressed  Maggie's  hand :  but  there  were  no  audible  good-byes. 
Tom  had  so  often  thought  how  joyful  he  should  be  the  day 
he  left  school  "  for  good  ! "  And  now  his  school  years  seemed 
like  a  holiday  that  had  come  to  an  end. 


206  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

The  two  slight  youthful  figures  soon  grew  indistinct  on 
the  distant  road  —  were  soon  lost  behind  the  projecting 
hedgerow. 

They  had  gone  forth  together  into  their  new  life  of  sorrow, 
and  they  would  nevermore  see  the  sunshine  undimmed  by 
remembered  cares.  They  had  entered  the  thorny  wilderness, 
and  the  golden  gates  of  their  childhood  had  forever  cl<?<ied 
behind  them. 


BOOK    III. 

THE  DOWNFALL. 


CHAPTER   I. 

WHAT   HAD    HAPPENED    AT   HOME. 

When  Mr.  Tulliver  first  knew  the  fact  that  the  lawsuit  was 
decided  against  him,  and  that  Pivart  and  Wakem  were  trium- 
phant, every  one  who  happened  to  observe  him  at  the  time 
thought  that,  for  so  confident  and  hot-tempered  a  man,  he  bore 
the  blow  remarkably  well.  He  thought  so  himself  :  he  thought 
he  was  going  to  show  that  if  Wakem  or  anybody  else  consid- 
ered him  crushed,  they  would  find  themselves  mistaken.  He 
could  not  refuse  to  see  that  the  costs  of  this  protracted  suit 
would  take  more  than  he  possessed  to  pay  them  ;  but  he  ap- 
peared to  himself  to  be  full  of  expedients  by  which  he  could 
ward  off  any  results  but  such  as  were  tolerable,  and  could  avoid 
the  appearance  of  breaking  down  in  the  world.  All  the  obsti- 
nacy and  defiance  of  his  nature,  driven  out  of  their  old  chan- 
nel, found  a  vent  for  themselves  in  the  immediate  formation  of 
plans  by  which  he  would  meet  his  difficulties,  and  remain  Mr. 
Tulliver  of  Dorlcote  Mill  in  spite  of  them.  There  was  such  a 
rush  of  projects  in  his  brain,  that  it  was  no  wonder  his  face 
was  flushed  when  he  came  away  from  his  talk  with  his  attor- 
ney, Mr.  Gore,  and  mounted  his  horse  to  ride  home  from 
Lindum.  There  was  Furley,  who  held  the  mortgage  on  the 
land  —  a  reasonable  fellow,  who  would  see  his  own  interest, 
Mr.  Tulliver  was  convinced,  and  who  would  be  glad  not  only 
to  purchase  the  whole  estate,  including  the  mill  and  home- 
stead, but  would  accept  Mr.  Tulliver  as  tenant,  and  be  willing 
to  advance  money  to  be  repaid  with  high  interest  out  of  the 


208  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

profits  of  the  business,  which  would  be  made  over  to  him,  Mr. 
Tulliver  only  taking  enough  barely  to  maintain  himself  and 
his  family.  Who  would  neglect  such  a  profitable  investment  ? 
Certainly  not  Furley,  for  Mr,  Tulliver  Lad  determined  that 
Furley  should  meet  his  plans  with  the  utmost  alacrity ;  and 
there  are  men  whose  brains  have  not  yet  been  dangerously 
heated  by  the  loss  of  a  lawsuit,  who  are  apt  to  see  in  their  own 
interest  or  desires  a  motive  for  other  men's  actions.  There 
was  no  doubt  (in  the  miller's  mind)  that  Furley  would  do  just 
what  was  desirable  ;  and  if  he  did  —  why,  things  v/ould  not  be 
so  very  much  worse.  Mr.  Tulliver  and  his  family  must  live 
more  meagrely  and  humbly,  but  it  would  only  be  till  the 
profits  of  the  business  had  paid  off  Furley's  advances,  and  that 
might  be  while  Mr.  Tulliver  had  still  a  good  many  years  of 
life  before  him.  It  was  clear  that  the  costs  of  the  suit  could 
be  paid  without  his  being  obliged  to  turn  out  of  his  old  place, 
and  look  like  a  ruined  man.  It  was  certainly  an  awkward 
moment  in  his  affairs.  There  was  that  suretyship  for  poor 
Riley,  who  had  died  suddenly  last  April,  and  left  his  friend 
saddled  with  a  debt  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  —  a  fact 
which  had  helped  to  make  Mr,  Tulliver's  banking  book  less 
pleasant  reading  than  a  man  might  desire  towards  Christmas. 
Well !  he  had  never  been  one  of  those  poor-spirited  sneaks 
who  would  refuse  to  give  a  helping  hand  to  a  fellow-traveller 
in  this  puzzling  world.  The  really  vexatious  business  was  the 
fact  that  some  months  ago  the  creditor  who  had  lent  him  the 
five  hundred  pounds  to  repay  Mrs.  Glegg,  had  become  uneasy 
about  his  money  (set  on  by  Wakem,  of  course),  and  Mr.  Tulliver, 
still  confident  that  he  should  gain  his  suit,  and  finding  it  emi- 
nently inconvenient  to  raise  the  said  sum  until  that  desii'able 
issue  had  taken  place,  had  rashly  acceded  to  the  demand  that 
he  should  give  a  bill  of  sale  on  his  household  furniture,  and 
some  other  effects,  as  security  in  lieu  of  the  bond.  It  was  all 
one,  he  had  said  to  himself  :  he  should  soon  pay  off  the  money, 
and  there  was  no  harm  in  giving  that  security  any  more  than 
another.  But  now  the  consequences  of  this  bill  of  sale  oc- 
curred to  him  in  a  new  light,  and  he  remembered  that  the  lime 
vas  close  at  hand,  when  it  would  be  enforced  unless  the  money 


THE   DOWNFALL.  209 

were  repaid.  Two  months  ago  he  would  have  declared  stoutly 
that  he  would  never  be  beholden  to  his  wife's  friends ;  but 
now  he  told  himself  as  stoutly  that  it  was  nothiug  but  right 
and  natural  that  Bessy  should  go  to  the  Pullets  and  explain 
the  thing  to  them  :  they  would  hardly  let  Bessy's  furniture  be 
sold,  and  it  might  be  security  to  Pullet  if  he  advanced  the 
money  —  there  would,  after  all,  be  no  gift  or  favor  in  the  mat- 
ter. Mr.  Tulliver  would  never  have  asked  for  anything  from 
so  poor-spirited  a  fellow  for  himself,  but  Bessy  might  do  so 
if  she  liked. 

It  is  precisely  the  proudest  and  most  obstinate  men  who  are 
the  most  liable  to  shift  their  position  and  contradict  them- 
selves in  this  sudden  manner  :  everything  is  easier  to  them 
than  to  face  the  simple  fact  that  they  have  been  thoroughly 
defeated,  and  must  begin  life  anew.  And  Mr.  Tulliver,  you 
perceive,  though  nothing  more  than  a  superior  miller  and 
maltster,  was  as  proud  and  obstinate  as  if  he  had  been  a  very 
lofty  personage,  in  whom  such  dispositions  might  be  a  source 
of  that  conspicuous,  far-echoing  tragedy,  which  sweeps  the 
stage  in  regal  robes,  and  makes  the  dullest  chronicler  sublime. 
The  pride  and  obstinacy  of  millers,  and  other  insignificant 
people,  whom  you  pass  unnoticingly  on  the  road  every  day, 
have  their  tragedy  too ;  but  it  is  of  that  unwept,  hidden  sort, 
that  goes  on  from  generation  to  generation,  and  leaves  no 
record  —  such  tragedy,  perhaps,  as  lies  in  the  conflicts  of  young 
souls,  hungry  for  joy,  under  a  lot  made  suddenly  hard  to  them, 
under  the  dreariness  of  a  home  where  the  morning  brings  no 
promise  with  it,  and  where  the  nnexpectant  discontent  of  worn 
and  disappointed  parents  weighs  on  the  children  like  a  damp, 
thick  air,  in  which  all  the  functions  of  life  are  depressed ;  or 
such  tragedy  as  lies  in  the  slow  or  sudden  death  that  follows 
on  a  bruised  passion,  though  it  may  be  a  death  that  finds  only 
a  parish  funeral.  There  are  certain  animals  to  which  tenacity 
of  position  is  a  law  of  life — they  can  never  flourish  again, 
after  a  single  wrench  :  and  there  are  certain  human  beings  to 
whom  predominance  is  a  law  of  life  —  they  can  only  sustain 
humiliation  so  long  as  they  can  refuse  to  believe  in  it,  and,  iu 
their  own  conception,  predominate  still. 

TOL.   H.  14 


210  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Mr.  TuUiver  was  still  predominating  in  his  own  imagination 
as  he  approached  St.  Ogg's,  through  which  he  had  to  pass  on 
his  way  homeward.  But  what  was  it  that  suggested  to  him, 
as  he  saw  the  Laceham  coach  entering  the  town,  to  follow  it 
to  the  coach-office,  and  get  the  clerk  there  to  write  a  letter, 
requiring  Maggie  to  come  home  the  very  next  day  ?  Mr.  Tul- 
liver's  own  hand  shook  too  much  under  his  excitement  for  him 
to  write  himself,  and  he  wanted  the  letter  to  be  given  to  the 
coachman  to  deliver  at  Miss  Firniss's  school  in  the  mornin?. 
There  was  a  craving  which  he  would  not  account  for  to  him- 
self, to  have  Maggie  near  him  —  without  delay  —  she  must 
come  back  by  the  coach  to-morrow. 

To  Mrs.  Tulliver,  when  he  got  home,  he  would  admit  no 
difficulties,  and  scolded  down  her  burst  of  grief  on  hearing 
that  the  lawsuit  was  lost,  by  angry  assertions  that  there  was 
nothing  to  grieve  about.  He  said  nothing  to  her  that  night 
about  the  bill  of  sale,  and  the  application  to  Mrs.  Pullet,  for 
he  had  kept  her  in  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  that  transaction, 
and  had  explained  the  necessity  for  taking  an  inventory  of 
the  goods  as  a  matter  connected  with  his  will.  The  posses- 
sion of  a  wife  conspicuously  one's  inferior  in  intellect,  is,  like 
other  high  privileges,  attended  with  a  few  inconveniences,  and, 
among  the  rest,  with  the  occasional  necessity  for  using  a  little 
deception. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Tulliver  was  again  on  horseback  in  the 
afternoon,  on  his  way  to  Mr.  Gore's  office  at  St.  Ogg's.  Gore 
was  to  have  seen  Furley  in  the  morning,  and  to  have  sounded 
him  in  relation  to  Mr.  Tulliver's  affairs.  But  he  had  not  gone 
half-way  when  he  met  a  clerk  from  Mr.  Gore's  office,  who  was 
bringing  a  letter  to  Mr.  Tulliver.  Mr.  Gore  had  been  pre- 
vented by  a  sudden  call  of  business  from  waiting  at  his  office 
to  see  Mr.  Tulliver,  according  to  appointment,  but  would  be 
at  his  office  at  eleven  to-morrow  morning,  and  meanwhile  had 
sent  some  important  information  by  letter. 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  taking  the  letter,  but  not  opening 
it.  "  Then  tell  Gore  I  '11  see  him  to-morrow  at  eleven  ; "  and 
he  turned  his  horse. 

The   clerk;,  struck   with   Mr.   Tulliver's   glistening   excited 


THE   DOWNFALL.  211 

glance,  looked  after  him  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  rode 
away.  The  reading  of  a  letter  was  not  the  affair  of  an  instant 
to  Mr.  Tulliver ;  he  took  in  the  sense  of  a  statement  very 
slowly  through  the  medium  of  written  or  even  printed  char- 
acters ;  so  he  had  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  thinking  he 
would  open  it  in  his  arm-chair  at  home.  But  by-and-by  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  there  might  be  something  in  the  letter  Mrs. 
Tulliver  must  not  know  about,  and  if  so,  it  would  be  better  to 
keep  it  out  of  her  sight  altogether.  He  stopped  his  horse, 
took  out  the  letter,  and  read  it.  It  was  only  a  short  letter  ; 
the  substance  was,  that  Mr.  Gore  had  ascertained,  on  secret 
but  sure  authority,  that  Furley  had  been  lately  much  strait- 
ened for  money,  and  had  parted  with  his  securities  —  among 
the  rest,  the  mortgage  on  Mr.  Tulliver's  property,  which  he 
had  transferred  to  —  Wakem. 

In  half  an  hour  after  this,  Mr.  Tulliver's  own  wagoner 
found  him  lying  by  the  roadside  insensible,  with  an  open 
letter  near  him,  and  his  gray  horse  snuffing  uneasily  about 
him. 

When  Maggie  reached  home  that  evening,  in  obedience  to  her 
father's  call,  he  was  no  longer  insensible.  About  an  hour  before, 
he  had  become  conscious,  and  after  vague,  vacant  looks  around 
him,  had  muttered  something  about  "  a  letter,"  which  he  pres- 
ently repeated  impatiently.  At  the  instance  of  Mr.  Turnbull, 
the  medical  man,  Gore's  letter  was  brought  and  laid  on  the 
bed,  and  the  previous  impatience  seemed  to  be  allayed.  The 
stricken  man  lay  for  some  time  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  let- 
ter, as  if  he  were  trying  to  knit  up  his  thoughts  by  its  help. 
But  presently  a  new  wave  of  memory  seemed  to  have  come 
and  swept  the  other  away ;  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the  letter 
to  the  door,  and  after  looking  uneasily,  as  if  striving  to  see 
something  his  eyes  were  too  dim  for,  he  said,  "The  little 
wench." 

He  repeated  the  words  impatiently  from  time  to  time,  ap- 
pearing entirely  unconscious  of  everything  except  this  one 
importunate  want,  and  giving  no  sign  of  knowing  his  wife 
or  any  one  else  ;  and  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver.  her  feeble  faculties 
almost  paralyzed  by  this  sudden  accumulation  of  troubles,  went 


212  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

backwards  and  forwards  to  the  gate  to  see  if  the  Laceham 
coach  were  coming,  though  it  was  not  yet  time. 

But  it  came  at  last,  and  set  down  the  poor  anxious  girl,  no 
longer  the  "  little  wench,"  except  to  her  father's  fond  memory. 

"  Oh  mother,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  Maggie  said,  with  pale 
lips,  as  her  mother  came  towards  her  crying.  She  didn't 
think  her  father  was  ill,  because  the  letter  had  come  at  his 
dictation  from  the  office  at  St.  Ogg's. 

But  Mr.  Turnbull  came  now  to  meet  her :  a  medical  man  is 
the  good  angel  of  the  troubled  house,  and  Maggie  ran  towards 
the  kind  old  friend,  whom  she  remembered  as  long  as  she  could 
remember  anything,  with  a  trembling,  questioning  look. 

"  Don't  alarm  yourself  too  much,  my  dear,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand.  "  Your  father  has  had  a  sudden  attack,  and  has 
not  quite  recovered  his  memory.  But  he  has  been  asking  for 
you,  and  it  will  do  hin)  good  to  see  you.  Keep  as  quiet  as 
you  can ;  take  off  your  things,  and  come  up-stairs  with  me." 

Maggie  obeyed,  with  that  terrible  beating  of  the  heart  which 
makes  existence  seem  simply  a  painful  pulsation.  The  very 
quietness  with  which  Mr.  Turnbull  spoke  had  frightened  her 
susceptible  imagination.  Her  father's  eyes  were  still  turned 
uneasily  towards  the  door  when  she  entered  and  met  the 
strange,  yearning,  helpless  look  that  had  been  seeking  her  in 
vain.  With  a  sudden  flash  and  movement,  he  raised  himself 
in  the  bed  —  she  rushed  towards  him,  and  clasped  him  with 
agonized  kisses. 

Poor  child  !  it  was  very  early  for  her  to  know  one  of  those 
supreme  moments  in  life  when  all  we  have  hoped  or  delighted 
in,  all  we  can  dread  or  endure,  falls  away  from  our  regard  as 
insignificant  —  is  lost,  like  a  trivial  memory,  in  that  simple, 
primitive  love  which  knits  us  to  the  beings  who  have  been 
nearest  to  us,  in  their  times  of  helplessness  or  of  anguish. 

But  that  flash  of  recognition  had  been  too  great  a  strain  on 
the  father's  bruised,  enfeebled  powers.  He  sank  back  again 
in  renewed  insensibility  and  rigidity,  whicli  lasted  for  many 
hours,  and  was  only  broken  by  a  flickering  return  of  conscious- 
ness, in  which  he  took  passively  everything  that  was  given  to 
him,  and  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  infantine  satisfaction  in 


THE  DOWNFALL.  213 

Maggie's  near  presence  —  such   satisfaction  as   a  baby   has 
when  it  is  returned  to  the  nurse's  lap. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  sent  for  her  sisters,  and  there  was  much  wail- 
ing and  lifting  up  of  hands  below  stairs  :  both  uncles  and 
aunts  saw  that  the  ruin  of  Bessy  and  her  family  was  as  com- 
plete as  they  had  ever  foreboded  it,  and  there  was  a  genera] 
family  sense  that  a  judgment  had  fallen  on  Mr.  Tulliver, 
which  it  would  be  an  impiety  to  counteract  by  too  much 
kindness.  But  Maggie  heard  little  of  this,  scarcely  ever 
leaving  her  father's  bedside,  where  she  sat  opposite  him 
with  her  hand  on  his.  Mrs.  Tulliver  wanted  to  have  Tom 
fetched  home,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking  more  of  her  boy  even 
than  of  her  husband ;  but  the  aunts  and  uncles  opposed  this. 
Tom  was  better  at  school,  since  Mr.  Turnbull  said  there  was 
no  immediate  danger,  he  believed.  But  at  the  end  of  the 
second  day,  when  Maggie  had  become  more  accustomed  to 
her  father's  fits  of  insensibility,  and  to  the  expectation  that 
he  would  revive  from  them,  the  thought  of  Tom  had  become 
urgent  with  her  too ;  and  when  her  mother  sat  crying  at  night 
and  saying,  "  My  poor  lad  ...  it 's  nothing  but  right  he  should 
come  home ; "  Maggie  said,  "  Let  me  go  for  him,  and  tell  him, 
mother ;  I  '11  go  to-morrow  morning  if  father  does  n't  know 
me  and  want  me.  It  would  be  so  hard  for  Tom  to  come  home 
and  not  know  anything  about  it  beforehand." 

And  the  next  morning  Maggie  went,  as  we  have  seen.  Sit- 
ting on  the  coach  on  their  way  home,  the  brother  and  sister 
talked  to  each  other  in  sad,  interrupted  whispers. 

"  They  say  Mr.  Wakem  has  got  a  mortgage  or  something  on 
the  land,  Tom,"  said  Maggie.  "  It  was  the  letter  with  that 
news  in  it  that  made  father  ill,  they  think." 

"I  believe  that  scoundrel 's  been  planning  all  along  to  ruin 
my  father,"  said  Tom,  leaping  from  the  vaguest  impressions 
to  a  definite  conclusion.  "  I  '11  make  him  feel  for  it  when  I  'm 
a  man.     Mind  you  never  speak  to  Pliiiip  again." 

"  Oh,  Tom ! "  said  Maggie,  in  a  tone  of  sad  remonstrance ; 
but  she  had  no  spirit  to  dispute  anything  then,  still  less  to 
vex  Tom  by  opposing  him. 


214  THE   MILL   UN    THE   FLOSS. 


CHAPTER   II. 

MBS.    TULLIVER's    TERAPHIM,    OR    HOUSEHOLD    GODS. 

When  the  coach  set  clown  Tom  and  Maggie,  it  was  five 
hours  since  she  had  started  from  home,  and  she  was  thinking 
with  some  trembling  that  her  father  had  perhaps  missed  her, 
and  asked  for  "  the  little  wench  "  in  vain.  She  thought  of  no 
other  change  that  might  have  happened. 

She  hurried  along  the  gravel-walk  and  entered  the  house 
before  Tom  ;  but  in  the  entrance  she  was  startled  by  a  strong 
smell  of  tobacco.  The  parlor  door  was  ajar  —  that  was  where 
the  smell  came  from.  It  was  very  strange :  could  any  visitor 
be  smoking  at  a  time  like  this  ?  Was  her  mother  there  ?  If 
so,  she  must  be  told  that  Tom  was  come.  Maggie,  after  this 
pause  of  surprise,  was  only  in  the  act  of  opening  the  door 
when  Tom  came  up,  and  they  both  looked  into  the  parlor  to- 
gether. There  was  a  coarse,  dingy  man,  of  whose  face  Tom 
had  some  vague  recollection,  sitting  in  his  father's  chair, 
smoking,  with  a  jug  and  glass  beside  him. 

The  truth  flashed  on  Tom's  mind  in  an  instant.  To  •'  have 
the  bailiff  in  the  house,"  and  "  to  be  sold  up,"  were  phrases 
which  he  had  been  used  to,  even  as  a  little  boy :  they  were 
part  of  the  disgrace  and  misery  of  "  failing,"  of  losing  all  one's 
money,  and  being  ruined  —  sinking  into  the  condition  of  poor 
working  people.  It  seemed  only  natural  this  should  happen, 
since  his  father  had  lost  all  his  property,  and  he  thought  of 
no  more  special  cause  for  this  particular  form  of  misfortune 
than  the  loss  of  the  lawsuit.  But  the  immediate  presence  of 
this  disgrace  was  so  much  keener  an  experience  to  Tom  than 
the  worst  form  of  apprehension,  that  he  felt  at  this  moment 
as  if  his  real  trouble  had  only  just  begun  :  it  was  a  touch  on 
the  irritated  nerve  compared  with  its  spontaneous  dull  aching. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  said  the  man,  taking  the  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth,  with  rough,  embarrassed  civility.  The  two 
young  startled  faces  made  him  a  little  uncomfortable. 


THE   DOWNFALL.  215 

But  Tom  turned  away  hastily  without  speaking:  the  sight 
was  too  hateful.  Maggie  had  not  understood  the  appearance 
of  this  stranger,  as  Tom  had.  She  followed  him,  whispering, 
"Who  can  it  be,  Tom?  — what  is  the  matter?"'  Then,  with 
a  sudden  undefined  dread  lest  this  stranger  might  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  a  change  in  her  father,  she  rushed  up-stairs, 
checking  herself  at  the  bedroom  door  to  throw  off  her  bonnet, 
and  enter  on  tiptoe.  All  was  silent  there :  her  father  was  ly- 
ing, heedless  of  everything  around  him,  with  his  eyes  closed 
as  when  she  had  left  him.  A  servant  was  there,  but  not  her 
mother. 

"  Where  's  my  mother  ?  "  she  whispered.  The  servant  did 
not  know. 

Maggie  hastened  out,  and  said  to  Tom,  "Father  is  lying 
quiet:  let  us  go  and  look  for  my  mother.  I  wonder  where 
she  is." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  not  down-stairs  —  not  in  any  of  the 
bedrooms.  There  was  but  one  room  below  the  attic  which 
Maggie  had  left  unsearched  :  it  was  the  store-room,  where  her 
mother  kept  all  her  linen  and  all  the  precious  "best  things" 
that  were  only  unwrapped  and  brought  out  on  special  occa- 
sions. Tom,  preceding  Maggie  as  they  returned  along  the 
passage,  opened  the  door  of  this  room,  and  immediately  said, 
"Mother!" 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  seated  there  with  all  her  laid-up  treasures. 
One  of  the  linen-chests  was  open :  the  silver  teapot  was  un- 
wrapped from  its  many  folds  of  paper,  and  the  best  china 
was  laid  out  on  the  top  of  the  closed  linen-chest ;  spoons  and 
skewers  and  ladles  were  spread  in  rows  on  the  shelves ;  and 
the  poor  woman  was  shaking  her  head  and  weeping,  with 
a  bitter  tension  of  the  mouth,  over  the  mark,  "Elizabeth 
Dodson,"  on  the  corner  of  some  table-cloths  she  held  in 
her  lap. 

She  dropped  them,  and  started  up  as  Tom  spoke. 

"Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy  ! "  she  said,  clasping  him  round  the  neck. 
"To  think  as  I  should  live  to  see  this  day  !  We're  ruined  .  .  . 
everything  's  going  to  be  sold  up  ...  to  think  as  your  father 
should   ha'  married   me   to   bring   me   to   this !     We  've  got 


216  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

nothing  ...  we   shall  be   beggars  ...  we   must   go   to   the 
workhouse  —  " 

She  kissed  him,  then  seated  herself  again,  and  took  another 
table-cloth  on  her  lap,  unfolding  it  a  little  way  to  look  at 
the  pattern,  while  the  children  stood  by  in  mute  wretched- 
ness —  their  minds  quite  filled  for  the  moment  with  the  words 
"  beggars  "  and   ''  workhouse." 

"  To  think  o'  these  cloths  as  I  spun  myself,"  she  went  on, 
lifting  things  out  and  turning  them  over  with  an  excitement 
all  the  more  strange  and  piteous  because  the  stout  blond 
woman  was  usually  so  passive  :  if  she  had  been  ruffled  before, 
it  was  at  the  surface  merely :  ''  and  Job  Haxey  wove  'em,  and 
brought  the  piece  home  on  his  back,  as  I  remember  standing 
at  the  door  and  seeing  him  come,  before  I  ever  thought  o' 
marrying  your  father!  And  the  pattern  as  I  chose  myself  — 
and  bleached  so  beautiful,  and  I  ma,rked  'em  so  as  nobody  ever 
saw  such  marking  —  they  must  cut  the  cloth  to  get  it  out,  for 
it 's  a  particular  stitch.  And  they  're  all  to  be  sold  —  and  go 
into  strange  people's  houses,  and  perhaps  be  cut  with  the 
knives,  anji  wore  out  before  I  'm  dead.  You  '11  never  have 
one  of  'em,  my  boy,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  Tom  with  her 
eyes  full  of  tears,  "and  I  meant  'em  for  you.  I  wanted  you 
to  have  all  o'  this  pattern.  Maggie  could  have  had  the  large 
check  —  it  never  shows  so  well  when  the  dishes  are  on  it." 

Tom  was  touched  to  the  quick,  but  there  was  an  angry 
reaction  immediately.     His  face  flushed  as  he  said  — 

"  But  will  my  aunts  let  them  be  sold,  mother  ?  Do  they 
know  about  it  ?  They  '11  never  let  your  linen  go,  will  they  ? 
Have  n't  you  sent  to  them  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  sent  Luke  directly  they'd  put  the  bailies  in,  and 
your  aunt  Pullet's  been  — and,  oh  dear,  oh  dear,  she  cries  so, 
and  says  your  father 's  disgraced  my  family  and  made  it  the 
talk  o'  the  country ;  and  she  '11  buy  the  spotted  cloths  for  her- 
self, because  she 's  never  had  so  many  as  she  wanted  o'  that 
pattern,  and  they  shan't  go  to  strangers,  but  she  's  got  more  j 
checks  a'ready  nor  she  can  do  with."  (Here  Mrs.  Tulliver 
began  to  lay  back  the  table-cloths  in  the  chest,  folding  and 
stroking  them  automatically.)     ''  And  your  uncle  Glegg  's  been 


THE  DOWNFALL.  217 

too,  and  he  says  things  must  be  bought  in  for  us  to  lie  down 
on,  but  he  must  talk  to  your  aunt ;  and  they  're  all  coming  to 
consult.  .  .  .  But  I  know  they  '11  none  of  'em  take  my  chany," 
she  added,  turning  towards  the  cups  and  saucers  —  "  for  they 
all  found  fault  with  'em  when  I  bought  'em,  'cause  o'  the  small 
gold  sprig  all  over  'em,  between  the  flowers.  But  there 's  none 
of  'em  got  better  chany,  not  even  your  aunt  Pullet  herself,  — 
and  I  bought  it  wi'  my  own  money  as  I  'd  saved  ever  since  I 
was  turned  fifteen ;  and  the  silver  teapot,  too  —  your  father 
never  paid  for  'em.  And  to  think  as  he  should  ha'  married 
me,  and  brought  me  to  this." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  burst  out  crying  afresh,  and  she  sobbed  with 
her  handkerchief  at  her  eyes  a  few  moments,  but  then  remov- 
ing it,  she  said  in  a  deprecating  way,  still  half  sobbing,  as  if 
she  were  called  upon  to  speak  before  she  could  command  her 
voice  — 

"  And  I  did  say  to  him  times  and  times,  <  Whativer  you  do, 
don't  go  to  law '  —  and  what  more  could  I  do  ?  I  've  had  to 
sit  by  while  my  own  fortin  's  been  spent,  and  what  should  ha' 
been  my  children's,  too.  You  '11  have  niver  a  penny,  my  boy 
.  .  .  but  it  is  n't  your  poor  mother's  fault." 

She  put  out  one  arm  towards  Tom,  looking  up  at  him  pite- 
ously  with  her  helpless,  childish  blue  eyes.  The  poor  lad 
went  to  her  and  kissed  her,  and  she  clung  to  him.  For  the 
first  time  Tom  thought  of  his  father  with  some  reproach.  His 
natural  inclination  to  blame,  hitherto  kept  entirely  in  abey- 
ance towards  his  father  by  the  predisposition  to  think  \\\m 
always  right,  simply  on  the  ground  that  he  was  Tom  Tulliver's 
father  —  was  turned  into  this  new  channel  by  his  mother's 
plaints,  and  with  his  indignation  against  Wakem  there  began 
to  mingle  some  indignation  of  another  sort.  Perhaps  his 
father  might  have  helped  bringing  them  all  down  in  the 
world,  and  making  people  talk  of  them  with  contempt ;  but 
no  one  should  talk  long  of  Tom  Tulliver  with  contempt. 
The  natural  strength  and  firmness  of  his  nature  was  beginning 
to  assert  itself,  urged  by  the  double  stimulus  of  resentment 
against  his  aunts,  and  the  sense  that  he  must  behave  like  a 
man  and  take  care  of  his  mother. 


218  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Don't  fret,  mother/'  he  said,  tenderly.  "  I  shall  soon  be 
able  to  get  money  :  I  '11  get  a  situation  of  some  sort." 

"Bless  you,  my  boy!"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  a  little  soothed. 
Then,  looking  round  sadly,  "  But  I  should  n't  ha'  minded  so 
much  if  we  could  ha'  kept  the  things  wi'  my  name  on  'em." 

Maggie  had  witnessed  this  scene  witli  gathering  anger. 
The  implied  reproaches  against  her  father  —  her  father,  who 
was  lying  there  in  a  sort  of  living  death  —  neutralized  all  her 
pity  for  griefs  about  table-cloths  and  china ;  and  her  anger  on 
her  father's  account  was  heightened  by  some  egoistic  resent- 
ment at  Tom's  silent  concurrence  with  her  mother  in  shutting 
her  out  from  the  common  calamity.  She  had  become  almost 
indifferent  to  her  mother's  habitual  depreciation  of  her,  but 
she  was  keenly  alive  to  any  sanction  of  it,  however  passive, 
that  she  might  suspect  in  Tom.  Poor  Maggie  was  by  no 
means  made  up  of  unalloyed  devotedness,  but  put  forth  large 
claims  for  herself  where  she  loved  strongly.  She  burst  out  at 
last  in  an  agitated,  almost  violent  tone,  "  Mother,  how  can 
you  talk  so  ?  as  if  you  cared  only  for  things  with  your  name 
on,  and  not  for  what  has  my  father's  name  too  —  and  to  care 
about  anything  but  dear  father  himself! — when  he's  lying 
there,  and  may  never  speak  to  us  again.  Tom,  you  ought  to 
say  so  too  —  you  ought  not  to  let  any  one  find  fault  with  my 
father." 

Maggie,  almost  choked  with  mingled  grief  and  anger,  left 
the  room,  and  took  her  old  place  on  her  father's  bed.  Her 
heart  went  out  to  him  with  a  stronger  movement  than  ever, 
at  the  thought  that  people  would  blame  him.  Maggie  hated 
blame  :  she  had  been  blamed  all  her  life,  and  nothing  had 
come  of  it  but  evil  tempers.  Her  father  had  always  defended 
and  excused  her,  and  her  loving  remembrance  of  his  tender- 
ness was  a  force  within  her  that  would  enable  her  to  do  or 
bear  anything  for  his  sake. 

Tom  was  a  little  shocked  at  Maggie's  outburst  —  telling  him, 
as  well  as  his  mother  what  it  was  right  to  do !  She  ought  to 
have  learned  better  than  have  those  hectoring,  assuming  man- 
ners, by  this  time.  But  he  presently  went  into  his  father's 
room,  and  the  sight  there  touched  him  in  a  way  that  effaced 


THE   DOWNFALL.  219 

the  slighter  impressions  of  the  previous  hour.  When  Maggie 
t;aw  how  he  was  moved,  she  went  to  him  and  put  her  arm 
round  liis  neck  as  he  sat  by  the  bed,  and  the  two  children 
forgot  everything  else  in  the  sense  that  they  had  one  father 
and  one  sorrow. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    FAMILY    COUNCIL. 

It  was  at  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  that  the  aunts 
and  uncles  came  to  hold  their  consultation.  The  fire  was 
lighted  in  the  large  parlor,  and  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a 
confused  impression  that  it  was  a  great  occasion,  like  a  fune- 
ral, unbagged  the  bell-rope  tassels,  and  unpinned  the  curtains, 
adjusting  them  in  proper  folds  —  looking  round  and  shaking 
her  head  sadly  at  the  polished  tops  and  legs  of  the  tables, 
which  sister  Pullet  herself  could  not  accuse  of  insufficient 
brightness. 

Mr.  Deane  was  not  coming  —  he  was  away  on  business ;  but 
Mrs.  Deane  appeared  punctually  in  that  handsome  new  gig 
with  the  head  to  it,  and  the  livery-servant  driving  it,  which 
had  thrown  so  clear  a  light  on  several  traits  in  her  character 
to  some  of  her  female  friends  in  St.  Ogg's.  Mr.  Deane  had 
been  advancing  in  the  world  as  rapidly  as  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
been  going  down  in  it ;  and  in  Mrs.  Deane's  house  the  Dodson 
linen  and  plate  were  beginning  to  hold  quite  a  subordinate 
position,  as  a  mere  supplement  to  the  handsomer  articles  of 
the  same  kind,  purchased  in  recent  years :  a  change  which 
had  caused  an  occasional  coolness  in  the  sisterly  intercourse 
between  her  and  Mrs.  Glegg,  who  felt  that  Susan  was  getting 
"  like  the  rest,"  and  there  would  soon  be  little  of  the  true 
Dodson  spirit  surviving  except  in  herself,  and,  it  might  be 
hoped,  in  those  nephews  who  supported  the  Dodson  name  on 
the  family  land,  far  away  in  the  Wolds.  People  who  live  at 
a  distance  are  naturally  less  faulty  than  those  immediately  un- 
der our  own  eyes ;  and  it  seems  superfluous,  when  we  consider 


220  THE   MILL   ON   THE    FLOSS. 

the  remote  geographical  position  of  the  Ethiopians,  and  how 
very  little  the  Greeks  had  to  do  with  them,  to  inquire  further 
why  Homer  calls  them  "  blameless." 

Mrs.  Deane  was  the  first  to  arrive ;  and  when  she  had  taken 
her  seat  in  the  large  parlor,  Mrs.  Tulliver  came  down  to  her 
with  her  comely  face  a  little  distorted,  nearly  as  it  would 
have  been  if  she  had  been  crying :  she  was  not  a  woman  who 
could  shed  abundant  tears,  except  in  moments  when  the  pros- 
pect of  losing  her  furniture  became  unusually  vivid,  but  she 
felt  how  unfitting  it  was  to  be  quite  calm  under  present 
circumstances. 

''  Oh  sister,  what  a  world  this  is ! "  she  exclaimed  as  she 
entered ;  "  what  trouble,  oh  dear  ! " 

Mrs.  Deane  was  a  thin-lipped  woman,  who  made  small  well- 
considered  speeches  on  peculiar  occasions,  repeating  them 
afterwards  to  her  husband,  and  asking  him  if  she  had  not 
spoken  very  properly. 

"  Yes,  sister,"  she  said,  deliberately,  *'  this  is  a  changing 
world,  and  we  don't  know  to-day  what  may  happen  to-morrow. 
But  it 's  right  to  be  prepared  for  all  things,  and  if  trouble 's 
sent,  to  remember  as  it  is  n't  sent  without  a  cause.  I  'm  very 
sorry  for  you  as  a  sister,  and  if  the  doctor  orders  jelly  for  Mr. 
Tulliver,  I  hope  you  '11  let  me  know  :  I  '11  send  it  willingly. 
For  it  is  but  right  he  should  have  proper  attendance  while 
he  's  ill." 

"  Thank  you,  Susan,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  rather  faintly, 
withdrawing  her  fat  hand  from  her  sister's  thin  one.  "But 
there  's  been  no  talk  o'  jelly  yet."  Then  after  a  moment's 
pause  she  added,  "  There 's  a  dozen  o'  cut  jelly -glasses  up- 
stairs. ...  I  slmll  never  put  jelly  into  'em  no  more." 

Her  voice  was  rather  agitated  as  she  uttered  the  last  words, 
but  the  sound  of  wheels  diverted  her  thoughts.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Glegg  were  come,  and  were  almost  immediately  followed  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pullet. 

Mrs.  Pullet  entered  crying,  as  a  compendious  mode,  at  all 
times,  of  expressing  what  were  her  views  of  life  in  general, 
and  what,  in  brief,  were  the  opinions  she  held  concerning  the 
particular  case  before  her. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  221 

Mrs.  Glegg  had  on  her  fuzziest  front,  and  garments  wliich 
appeared  to  have  had  a  recent  resurrection  from  rather  a  creasy 
form  of  burial ;  a  costume  selected  with  the  high  moral  purpose 
of  instilling  perfect  humility  into  Bessy  and  her  children, 

"  Mrs.  G.,  won't  you  come  nearer  the  fire  ?  "  said  her  hus- 
band, unwilling  to  take  the  more  comfortable  seat  without 
offering  it  to  her. 

"You  see  I've  seated  myself  here,  Mr.  Glegg,"  returned 
this  superior  woman  ;  '^jjou  can  roast  yourself,  if  you  like." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  seating  himself  good-humoredly, 
"and  how's  the  poor  man  up-stairs?" 

"Dr.  Turnbull  thought  him  a  deal  better  this  morning,'* 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver ;  "  he  took  more  notice,  and  spoke  to  me ; 
but  he 's  never  known  Tom  yet  —  looks  at  the  poor  lad  as  it 
he  was  a  stranger,  though  he  said  something  once  about  Tom 
and  the  pony.  The  doctor  says  his  memory 's  gone  a  long  way 
back,  and  he  does  n't  know  Tom  because  he 's  thinking  of  him 
when  he  was  little.     Eh  dear,  eh  dear  !  " 

"  I  doubt  it 's  the  water  got  on  his  brain,"  said  aunt  Pullet, 
turning  round  from  adjusting  her  cap  in  a  melancholy  way 
at  the  pier-glass.  "  It 's  much  if  he  ever  gets  up  again  ;  and 
if  he  does,  he  '11  most  like  be  childish,  as  Mr.  Carr  was,  poor 
man !  They  fed  him  with  a  spoon  as  if  he  'd  been  a  babby 
for  three  year.  He  'd  quite  lost  the  use  of  his  limbs ;  but  then 
he  'd  got  a  Bath  chair,  and  somebody  to  draw  him ;  and  that 's 
what  you  won't  have,  I  doubt,  Bessy." 

"  Sister  Pullet,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  severely,  "  if  I  understand 
right,  we  've  come  together  this  morning  to  advise  and  consult 
about  what 's  to  be  done  in  this  disgrace  as  has  fallen  upon 
the  family,  and  not  to  talk  o'  people  as  don't  belong  to  us. 
Mr.  Carr  was  none  of  our  blood,  nor  noways  connected  with 
us,  as  I  've  ever  beared." 

"  Sister  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  pleading  tone,  draw- 
ing on  her  gloves  again,  and  stroking  the  fingers  in  an  agitated 
manner,  "if  you  Ve  got  anything  disrespectful  to  say  o'  Mr. 
Carr,  I  do  beg  of  you  as  you  won't  say  it  to  me.  /  know  what 
he  was,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh  ;  "  his  breath  was  short  to 
that  degree  as  you  could  hear  him  two  rooms  off." 


222  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Sophy ! "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  indiguant  disgust,  "  you 
do  talk  o'  people's  complaints  till  it 's  quite  undecent.  But  I 
say  again,  as  I  said  before,  I  did  n't  come  away  from  home  to 
talk  about  acquaintance,  whether  they  'd  short  breath  or  long. 
If  we  are  n't  come  together  for  one  to  hear  what  the  other  'ull 
do  to  save  a  sister  and  her  children  from  the  parish,  /  shall  go 
back.  One  can't  act  without  the  other,  I  suppose  ;  it  is  n't  to 
be  expected  as  /  should  do  everything." 

''  Well,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "  I  don't  see  as  you  've  been 
so  very  forrard  at  doing.  So  far  as  I  kuow,  this  is  the  first 
time  as  here  you  've  been,  since  it 's  been  known  as  the  bailiff 's 
in  the  house ;  and  I  was  here  yesterday,  and  looked  at  all 
Bessy's  linen  and  things,  and  I  told  her  I  'd  buy  in  the  spotted 
table-cloths.  I  couldn't  speak  fairer  ;  for  as  for  the  teapot  as 
she  does  n't  want  to  go  out  o'  the  family,  it  stands  to  sense  I 
can't  do  with  two  silver  teapots,  not  if  it  had  nH  a  straight 
spout  —  but  the  spotted  damask  I  was  allays  fond  on." 

'■'■  I  wish  it  could  be  managed  so  as  my  teapot  and  ciiany  and 
the  best  castors  need  n't  be  put  up  for  sale,"  said  poor  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  beseechingly,  "  and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  first  things 
ever  I  bought." 

''But  that  can't  be  helped,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Glegg. 
"If  one  o'  the  family  chooses  to  buy  'em  in,  they  can,  but  one 
thing  must  be  bid  for  as  well  as  another." 

"  And  it  is  n't  to  be  looked  for,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  with 
unwonted  independence  of  idea,  "  as  your  own  family  should 
pay  more  for  things  nor  they  '11  fetch.  They  may  go  for  an 
old  song  by  auction." 

''Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "to  think  o'  my 
chany  being  sold  i'  that  way  —  and  I  bought  it  when  I  was 
married,  just  as  you  did  yours,  Jme  and  Sophy  :  and  I  know 
you  did  n't  like  mine,  because  o'  the  sprig,  but  I  was  fond  of 
it ;  and  there 's  never  been  a  bit  broke,  for  I  've  washed  it 
myself  —  and  there  's  the  tulips  on  the  cups,  and  the  roses, 
as  anybody  might  go  and  look  at  'em  for  pleasure.  You 
would  n't  like  your  ehany  to  go  for  an  old  song  and  be  broke 
to  pieces,  though  yours  has  got  no  color  in  it,  Jane  —  it 's  all 
white   and   fluted,  and   didn't  cost  so  much   as   mine.     And 


THE  DOWNFALL.  223 

there 's  the  castors  —  sister  Deane,  I  can't  think  but  you  'd  like 
to  have  the  castors,  for  I  've  heard  you  say  they  're  pretty." 

"  Well,  I  've  no  objection  to  buy  some  of  the  best  things," 
said  Mrs.  Deane,  rather  loftily  ;  "  we  can  do  with  extra  things 
in  our  house." 

"  Best  things  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Glegg  with  severity,  which 
had  gathered  intensity  from  her  long  silence.  "It  drives  me 
past  patience  to  hear  you  all  talking  o'  best  things,  and  buying 
in  this,  that,  and  the  other,  such  as  silver  and  chany.  You 
must  bring  your  mind  to  your  circumstances,  Bessy,  and  not 
be  thinking  o'  silver  and  chany ;  but  v/hether  you  shall  get 
so  much  as  a  flock-bed  to  lie  on,  and  a  blanket  to  cover  you, 
and  a  stool  to  sit  on.  You  must  remember,  if  you  get  'em, 
it  '11  be  because  your  friends  have  bought  'em  for  you,  for 
you  're  dependent  upon  them  for  everything ;  for  your  hus- 
band lies  there  helpless,  and  has  n't  got  a  penny  i'  the  world 
to  call  his  own.  And  it's  for  your  own  good  I  say  this, 
for  it 's  right  you  should  feel  what  your  state  is,  and  what 
disgrace  your  husband 's  brought  on  your  own  family,  as 
you  've  got  to  look  to  for  everything  —  and  be  humble  in  your 
mind." 

Mrs.  Glegg  paused,  for  speaking  with  much  energy  for  the 
good  of  others  is  naturally  exhausting.  Mrs.  Tulliver,  always 
borne  down  by  the  family  predominance  of  sister  Jane,  who 
had  made  her  wear  the  yoke  of  a  younger  sister  in  very  tender 
years,  said  pleadingly  — 

"  I  'm  sure,  sister,  I  've  never  asked  anybody  to  do  anything, 
only  buy  things  as  it  'ud  be  a  pleasure  to  "em  to  have,  so  as 
they  might  n't  go  and  be  spoiled  i'  strange  houses.  I  never 
asked  anybody  to  buy  the  things  in  for  me  and  my  children ; 
though  there  's  the  linen  I  spun,  and  I  thought  when  Tom  was 
born  —  I  thought  one  o'  the  first  things  when  he  was  lying  i' 
the  cradle,  as  all  the  things  I  'd  bought  wi'  my  own  money, 
and  been  so  careful  of,  'ud  go  to  liim.  But  I  've  said  nothing 
as  I  wanted  my  sisters  to  pay  their  money  for  me.  W^hat  my 
husband  has  done  for  his  sister  's  tinknown,  and  we  should  ha* 
been  better  off  this  day  if  it  had  n't  been  as  he 's  lent  money 
and  never  asked  for  it  again." 


224  THE    MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS.    • 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  kindly,  "  don't  let  us  make 
things  too  dark.  What's  done  can't  be  undone.  We  shall 
make  a  shift  among  us  to  buy  what 's  sufficient  for  you ;  though, 
as  Mrs.  G.  says,  they  must  be  useful,  plain  things.  We 
must  n't  be  thinking  o'  what 's  unnecessary.  A  table,  and  a 
chair  or  two,  and  kitchen  things,  and  a  good  bed,  and  suchlike. 
Why,  I  've  seen  the  day  when  I  should  n't  ha'  known  myself 
if  I  'd  lain  on  sacking  i'stead  o'  the  floor.  We  get  a  deal  o' 
useless  things  about  us,  only  because  we  've  got  the  money  to 
spend." 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "  if  you  '11  be  kind  enough  to  let 
me  speak,  i'stead  o'  taking  the  words  out  o'  my  mouth  —  I  was 
going  to  say,  Bessy,  as  it 's  fine  talking  for  you  to  say  as  you  've 
never  asked  us  to  buy  anything  for  you ;  let  me  tell  you,  you 
ought  to  have  asked  us.  Pray,  how  are  you  to  be  purvided 
for,  if  your  own  family  don't  help  you  ?  You  must  go  to  the 
parish,  if  they  did  n't.  And  you  ought  to  know  that,  and  keep 
it  in  mind,  and  ask  us  humble  to  do  what  we  can  for  you, 
i'stead  o'  saying,  and  making  a  boast,  as  you  've  never  asked 
us  for  anything." 

"  You  talked  o'  the  Mosses,  and  what  Mr.  Tulliver  's  done 
for  'em,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  who  became  unusually  suggestive  :|| 
where  advances  of  money  were  concerned.  "  Have  n't  they 
been  anear  you  ?  They  ought  to  do  something,  as  well  as 
other  folks  ;  and  if  he 's  lent  'em  money,  they  ought  to  be  made 
to  pay  it  back." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Deane ;  "  I  've  been  thinking 
so.  How  is  it  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moss  are  n't  here  to  meet  us  ? 
It  is  but  right  they  should  do  their  share." 

"  Oh  dear  ! "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "  I  never  sent  'em  word 
about  Mr.  Tulliver,  and  they  live  so  back'ard  among  the  lanes 
at  Basset,  they  niver  hear  anything  onl}^  when  Mr.  Moss  comes 
to  market.  But  I  niver  gave  'em  a  thought.  I  wonder  Maggie 
did  n't,  though,  for  she  was  allays  so  fond  of  her  aunt  Moss." 

"  Why  don't  your  children  come  in,  Bessy  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Pul- 
let, at  the  mention  of  Maggie.  "  They  should  hear  what  their 
aunts  and  uncles  have  got  to  say  :  and  Maggie  —  when  it 's  me 
as  have  paid  for  half  her  schooling,  she  ought  to  think  more  of' 


THE  DOWNFALL.  225 

her  aunt  Pullet  than  of  aunt  Mosses.     I  may  go  off  sudden 
when  I  get  home  to-day  —  there 's  no  telling." 

"  If  I  'd  had  my  way,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "  the  children  'ud 
ha'  been  in  the  room  from  the  first.  It 's  time  they  knew  who 
they  've  to  look  to,  and  it 's  right  as  somebody  should  talk  to 
'em,  and  let  'em  know  their  condition  i'  life,  and  what  they  're 
come  down  to,  and  make  'em  feel  as  they  've  got  to  suffer  for 
their  father's  faults." 

"Well,  I  '11  go  and  fetch 'em,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  resign- 
edly. She  was  quite  crushed  now,  and  thought  of  the  treasures 
in  the  store-room  with  no  other  feeling  than  blank  despair. 

She  went  up-stairs  to  fetch  Tom  and  Maggie,  who  were  both 
in  their  father 's  room,  and  was  on  her  way  down  again,  when 
the  sight  of  the  store-room  door  suggested  a  new  thought  to 
her.  She  went  towards  it,  and  left  the  children  to  go  down 
by  themselves. 

The  aunts  and  uncles  appeared  to  have  been  in  warm  dis- 
cussion when  the  brother  and  sister  entered  —  both  with  shrink- 
ing reluctance ;  for  though  Tom,  with  a  practical  sagacity 
which  had  been  roused  into  activity  by  the  strong  stimulus  of 
the  new  emotions  he  had  undergone  since  yesterday,  had  been 
turning  over  in  his  mind  a  plan  which  he  meant  to  propose  to 
one  of  his  aunts  or  uncles,  he  felt  by  no  means  amicably  to- 
wards them,  and  dreaded  meeting  them  all  at  once  as  he  would 
have  dreaded  a  large  dose  of  concentrated  physic,  which  was 
but  just  endurable  in  small  draughts.  As  for  Maggie,  she  was 
peculiarly  depressed  this  morning :  she  had  been  called  up, 
after  brief  rest,  at  three  o'clock,  and  had  that  strange  dreamy 
weariness  which  comes  from  watching  in  a  sick-room  through 
the  chill  hours  of  early  twilight  and  breaking  day  —  in  which 
the  outside  daylight  life  seems  to  have  no  importance,  and  to 
be  a  mere  margin  to  the  hours  in  the  darkened  chamber.  Their 
entrance  interrupted  the  conversation.  The  shaking  of  hands 
was  a  melancholy  and  silent  ceremony,  till  uncle  Pullet  ob- 
served, as  Tom  approached  him  — 

"  Well,  young  sir,  we  've  been  talking  as  we  should  want 
your  pen  and  ink ;  you  can  write  rarely  now,  after  all  your 
schooling,  I  should  think." 

TOL.    II.  16 


226  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS, 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  with  admonition  which  he  meant 
to  be  kind,  "  we  must  look  to  see  the  good  of  all  this  school- 
ing, as  your  father 's  sunk  so  much  money  in,  now  — 

'  When  land  is  gone  and  money  's  spent, 
Then  learning  is  most  excellent.' 

Now 's  the  time,  Tom,  to  let  us  see  the  good  o'  your  learning, 
Let  us  see  whether  you  can  do  better  than  I  can,  as  have  mad 
my  fortin  without  it.  But  I  began  wi'  doing  with  little,  you 
see :  I  could  live  on  a  basin  o'  porridge  and  a  crust  o'  bread- 
and-cheese.  But  1  doubt  high  living  and  high  learning  'uU 
make  it  harder  for  you,  young  man,  nor  it  was  for  me." 

"  But  he  must  do  it,"  interposed  aunt  Glegg,  energetically, 
"  whether  it 's  hard  or  no.  He  has  n't  got  to  consider  what 's 
hard ;  he  must  consider  as  he  is  n't  to  trusten  to  his  friends  to 
keep  him  in  idleness  and  luxury  :  he's  got  to  bear  the  fruits 
of  his  father's  misconduct,  and  bring  his  mind  to  fare  hard  and 
to  work  hard.  And  he  must  be  humble  and  grateful  to  his 
aunts  and  uncles  for  what  they  're  doing  for  his  mother  and 
father,  as  must  be  turned  out  into  the  streets  and  go  to  the 
workhouse  if  they  did  n't  help  'em.  And  his  sister,  too,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Glegg,  looking  severely  at  Maggie,  who  had  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  by  her  aunt  Deane,  drawn  to  her  by  the  sense 
that  she  was  Lucy's  mother,  "  she  must  make  up  her  mind  to 
be  humble  and  work ;  for  there  '11  be  no  servants  to  wait  on 
her  any  more  —  she  must  remember  that.  She  must  do  the 
work  o'  the  house,  and  she  must  respect  and  love  her  aunts  as 
have  done  so  much  for  her,  and  saved  their  money  to  leave  to 
their  nepheys  and  nieces." 

Tom  was  still  standing  before  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
group.  There  was  a  heightened  color  in  his  face,  and  he  was 
very  far  from  looking  humbled,  but  he  was  preparing  to  say, 
in  a  respectful  tone,  something  he  had  previously  meditated, 
when  the  door  opened  and  his  mother  re-entered. 

Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  in  her  hands  a  small  tray,  on  which 
she  had  placed  her  silver  teapot,  a  specimen  teacup  and  saucer, 
the  castors,  and  sugar-tongs. 

"  See  here,  sister,"  she  said,  looking  at  Mrs.  Deane,  as  she 
set  the  tray  on  the  table,  "  I  thought,  perhaps,  if  you  looked 


1 


THE   DOWNFALL.  227 

at  the  teapot  aga\n  —  it 's  a  good  while  since  you  saw  it  —  you 
might  like  the  pattern  better  :  it  makes  beautiful  tea,  and 
there 's  a  stand  and  everything :  you  might  use  it  for  every 
day,  or  else  lay  it  by  for  Lucy  when  she  goes  to  housekeeping. 
I  should  be  so  loath  for  'era  to  buy  it  at  the  Golden  Lion," 
said  the  poor  woman,  her  heart  swelling,  and  the  tears  coming, 
"my  teapot  as  I  bought  when  I  was  married,  and  to  think 
of  its  being  scratched,  and  set  before  the  travellers  and  folks, 
and  my  letters  on  it  —  see  here,  E.  D.  —  and  everybody  to  see 
'em." 

"  Ah,  dear,  dear !  "  said  aunt  Pullet,  shaking  her  head  with 
deep  sadness,  "it's  very  bad  —  to  think o'  the  family  initials 
going  about  everywhere  —  it  niver  was  so  before  :  you  're  a 
very  unlucky  sister,  Bessy.  But  what  \s  the  use  o'  buying  the 
iteapot,  when  there  's  the  linen  and  spoons  and  everything  to 
jgo,  and  some  of  'em  with  your  full  name  — •  and  when  it 's  got 
ithat  straight  spout,  too." 

"As  to  disgrace  o'  tlie  family,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "that  can't 
be  helped  wi'  buying  teapots.  The  disgrace  is,  for  one  o'  the 
family  to  ha'  married  a  man  as  has  brought  her  to  beggary. 
The  disgrace  is,  as  they  're  to  be  sold  up.  We  can't  hinder  the 
country  from  knowing  that." 

I  Maggie  had  started  up  from  the  sofa  at  the  allusion  to  her 
father,  but  Tom  saw  her  action  and  flushed  face  in  time  to  pre- 
vent her  from  speaking.  "  Be  quiet,  Maggie,"  he  said,  authori- 
tatively, pushing  her  aside.  It  was  a  remarkable  manifestation 
of  self-command  and  practical  judgment  in  a  lad  of  fifteen,  that 
when  his  aunt  Glegg  ceased,  he  began  to  speak  in  a  quiet  and 
respectful  manner,  though  with  a  good  deal  of  trembling  in 
bis  voice  ;  for  his  mother's  words  had  cut  him  to  the  quick. 

"Then,  aunt,"  he  said,  looking  straight  at  Mrs.  Glegg,  "if 
you  think  it 's  a  disgrace  to  the  family  that  we  should  be  sold 
up,  would  n't  it  be  better  to  prevent  it  altogether?  And  if 
you  and  my  aunt  Pullet,"  he  continued,  looking  at  the  latter, 
r  think  of  leaving  any  money  to  me  and  Maggie,  would  n't  it 
pe  better  to  give  it  now",  and  pay  the  debt  we  're  going  to 
be  sold  up  for,  and  save  my  mother  from  parting  with  hei 
fuiniture  ?  " 


228  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  for  every  one,  includ- 
ing Maggie,  was  astonished  at  Tom's  sudden  manliness  of  tone. 
Uncle  Glegg  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Ay,  ay,  young  man  —  come  now  !  You  show  some  notion 
o'  things.  But  there  's  the  interest,  you  must  remember  ;  your 
aunts  get  five  per  cent  on  their  money,  and  they  'd  lose  that  if 
they  advanced  it  —  you  have  n'u  thought  o'  that," 

"  I  could  work  and  pay  that  every  year,"  said  Tom,  promptly. 
"  I  'd  do  anything  to  save  my  mother  from  parting  with  her 
things." 

"  Well  done  !  "  said  uncle  Glegg,  admiringly.  He  had  been 
drawing  Tom  out,  rather  than  reflecting  on  the  practicability 
of  his  proposal.  But  he  had  produced  the  unfortunate  result 
of  irritating  his  wife.  « 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Glegg ! "  said  that  lady,  with  angry  sarcasm. 
"  It 's  pleasant  work  for  you  to  be  giving  my  money  away, 
as  you  've  pretended  to  leave  at  my  own  disposal.  And  my 
money,  as  was  my  own  father's  gift,  and  not  yours,  Mr.  Glegg; 
and  I  've  saved  it,  and  added  to  it  myself,  and  had  more  to  put 
out  almost  every  year,  and  it 's  to  go  and  be  sunk  in  other 
folks'  furniture,  and  encourage  'em  in  luxiiry  and  extrava- 
gance as  they  've  no  means  of  supporting ;  and  I  'm  to  alter  my 
will,  or  have  a  codicil  made,  and  leave  two  or  three  hundred 
less  behind  me  when  I  die  —  me  as  have  allays  done  right  and 
been  careful,  and  the  eldest  o'  the  family ;  and  my  money  's  to  i 
go  and  be  squandered  on  them  as  have  had  the  same  chance 
as  me,  only  they  've  been  wicked  and  wasteful.  Sister  Pullet, 
yoxi  may  do  as  you  like,  and  you  may  let  your  husband  rob  you 
back  again  o'  the  money  he  's  given  you,  but  that  is  n't  my 
sperrit." 

"  La,  Jane,  how  fiery  you  are  !  "  said  Mrs.  Pullet.  "  I  'm 
sure  you  '11  have  the  blood  in  your  head,  and  have  to  be  cupped. 
T  'm  sorry  for  Bessy  and  her  children  —  I  'm  sure  I  think  of 
'em  'o  nights  dreadful,  for  I  sleep  very  bad  wi'  this  new  medi- 
cine :  but  it 's  no  use  for  me  to  think  o'  doing  anything,  if  you 
won't  meet  me  half-way." 

"Why,  there  's  this  to  be  considered,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "It's 
no  use  to  pay  off  this  debt  and  save  the  furniture,  when  there 's 


THE   DOWNFALL.  229 

nil  the  law  debts  behind,  as  'ud  take  every  shilling,  and  more 
;han  could  be  made  out  o'  land  and  stock,  for  I  've  made  that 
)ut  from  Lawyer  Gore.  We  'd  need  save  our  money  to  keep 
;he  poor  man  with,  instead  o'  spending  it  on  furniture  as  he 
;an  neither  eat  nor  drink.  You  iv'dl  be  so  hasty,  Jane,  as  if  I 
lid  n't  know  what  was  reasonable." 

"  Then  speak  accordingly,  Mr.  Glegg  !  "  said  his  wife,  with 
5I0W,  loud  emphasis,  bending  her  head  towards  him  signifi- 
?antly. 

Tom's  countenance  had  fallen  during  this  conversation,  and 
his  lip  quivered  ;  but  he  was  determined  not  to  give  way.  He 
would  behave  like  a  man.  Maggie,  on  the  contrary,  after  her 
Diomentary  delight  in  Tom's  speech,  had  relapsed  into  her 
state  of  trembling  indignation.  Her  mother  had  been  stand- 
ing close  by  Tom's  side,  and  had  been  clinging  to  his  arm  ever 
since  he  had  last  spoken:  Maggie  suddenly  started  up  and 
jstood  in  front  of  them,  her  eyes  flashing  like  the  eyes  of  a 
young  lioness. 

"Why  do  you  come,  then,"  she  burst  out,  "talking  and 
interfering  with  us  and  scolding  us,  if  you  don't  mean  to  do 
anything  to  help  my  poor  mother  —  your  own  sister  —  if 
you  've  no  feeling  for  her  when  she  's  in  trouble,  and  won't 
part  with  anything,  though  you  would  never  miss  it,  to  save 
her  from  pain?  Keep  away  from  us  then,  and  don't  come  to 
find  fault  with  my  father  —  he  was  better  than  any  of  you  — 
he  was  kind  —  he  would  have  helped  you,  if  you  had  been  in 
trouble.  Tom  and  I  don't  ever  want  to  have  any  of  your 
money,  if  you  won't  help  my  mother.  We  'd  rather  not  have 
it !  we  '11  do  without  you." 

Maggie,  having  hurled  her  defiance  at  aunts  and  uncles  in 
this  way,  stood  still,  with  her  large  dark  eyes  glaring  at  them, 
'as  if  she  were  ready  to  await  all  consequences. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  frightened ;  there  was  something  porten- 
tous in  this  mad  outbreak ;  she  did  not  see  how  life  could  go 
on  after  it.  Tom  was  vexed ;  it  was  no  tise  to  talk  so.  The 
aunts  were  silent  with  surprise  for  some  moments.  At  length, 
in  a  case  of  aberration  such  as  this,  comment  presented  itself 
as  more  expedient  than  any  answer. 


230  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"You  haven't  seen  the  end  o'  your  trouble  wi'  that  child, 
Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet ;  ''  she  's  beyond  everything  for  bold- 
ness'and  unthankfulness.  It's  dreadful.  1  might  ha'  let 
alone  paying  for  her  schooling,  for  she  's  worse  nor  ever." 

"It's  no  more  than  what  I've  allays  said,"  followed  Mrs. 
Glegg.  "  Other  folks  may  be  surprised,  but  I  'm  not.  I  've, 
said  over  and  over  again  —  years  ago  1  Ve  said  —  '  Mark  my 
words  ;  that  child  'ull  come  to  no  good  :  there  is  n't  a  bit  of 
our  family  in  her.'  And  as  for  her  having  so  much  schooling, 
I  never  thought  well  o'  that.  1  "d  my  reasons  when  I  said  1 
wouldn't  pay  anything  towards  it.'' 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  "  let 's  waste  no  more  time 
in  talking  — let 's  go  to  business.  Tom  now,  get  the  pen  and 
ink  —  " 

While  Mr.  Glegg  was  speaking,  a  tall  dark  figure  was  seen 
hurrying  past  the  window. 

"  Why,  there  's  Mrs.  Moss,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "  The  bad 
news  must  ha'  reached  her,  then  ;  "  and  she  went  out  to  open 
the  door,  Maggie  eagerly  following  her. 

"  That 's  fortunate.,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  She  can  agree  to 
the  list  o'  things  to  be  bought  in.  It 's  biit  right  she  should 
do  her  share  when  it's  her  own  brother.'' 

Mrs.  Moss  was  in  too  much  agitation  to  resist  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver's  movement,  as  she  drew  her  into  the  parlor,  automatically, 
without  reflecting  that  it  was  hardly  kind  to  take  her  among 
so  many  persons  in  the  first  painful  moment  of  arrival.  The 
tall,  worn,  dark-haired  woman  was  a  strong  contrast  to  the 
Dodson  sisters  as  she  entered  in  her  shabby  dress,  with  her 
shawl  and  bonnet  looking  as  if  they  had  been  hastily  huddled 
on,  and  with  that  entire  absence  of  self-consciousness  which 
belongs  to  keenly  felt  trouble.  Maggie  was  clinging  to  her 
arm ;  and  Mrs.  Moss  seemed  to  notice  no  one  else  except  Tom, 
whom  she  went  straight  up  to  and  took  by  the  hand. 

"  Oh  my  dear  children,"  she  burst  out,  "  you  've  no  call  to 
think  well  o'  me ;  I  'm  a  poor  aunt  to  you,  for  I  'm  one  o'  them 
as  take  all  and  give  nothing.     How  's  my  poor  brother  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Turnbull  thinks  he  '11  get  better,"  said  Maggie.  "  Sit 
down,  aunt  Gritty.     Don't  fret." 


THE  DOWNFALL.  231 

"  Oh,  my  sweet  child,  I  feel  torn  i'  two,"  said  Mrs.  Moss, 
allowing  Maggie  to  lead  her  to  the  sofa,  but  still  not  seeming 
to  notice  the  presence  of  the  rest.  "  We  've  three  hundred 
pounds  o'  my  brother's  money,  and  now  he  wants  it,  and  you 
all  want  it,  poor  things  !  —  and  yet  we  must  be  sold  up  to  pay 
it,  and  there  's  my  poor  children  —  eight  of  'em,  and  the  little 
un  of  all  can't  speak  plain.  And  I  feel  as  if  I  was  a  robber. 
But  I'm  sure  I  'd  no  thought  as  my  brother  — " 

The  poor  woman  was  interrupted  by  a  rising  sob. 

"  Three  hundred  pounds !  oh  dear,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tullive-r, 
who,  when  she  had  said  that  her  husband  had  done  "un- 
known "  things  for  his  sister,  had  not  had  any  particular  sum 
in  her  mind,  and  felt  a  wife's  irritation  at  having  been  kept  in 
the  dark. 

"  What  madness,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  A  man  with 
a  family  !  He  'd  no  right  to  lend  his  money  i'  that  way ;  and 
without  security,  I  '11  be  bound,  if  the  truth  was  known." 

Mrs.  Glegg's  voice  had  arrested  Mrs.  Moss's  attention,  and. 
looking  up,  she  said  — 

"  Yes,  there  was  security :  my  husband  gave  a  note  for  it. 
We're  not  that  sort  o'  people,  neither  of  us,  as  'ud  rob  my 
brother's  children ;  and  we  looked  to  paying  back  the  money, 
when  the  times  got  a  bit  better." 

"  Well,  but  now,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  gently,  "  has  n't  your 
husband  no  way  o'  raising  this  money  ?  Because  it  'd  be  a 
little  fortin,  like,  for  these  folks,  if  we  can  do  Avithout  Tulli- 
ver's  being  made  a  bankrupt.  Your  husband's  got  stock:  it 
is  but  right  he  should  raise  the  money,  as  it  seems  to  me  — 
not  but  what  I  'm  sorry  for  you,  Mrs.  Moss." 

"  Oh  sir,  you  don't  know  what  bad  luck  my  husband 's  had 
with  his  stock.  The  farm  's  suffering  so  as  never  was  for 
want  o'  stock ;  and  we  've  sold  all  the  wheat,  and  we  're  be 
hind  with  our  rent  .  .  .  not  but  what  we  'd  like  to  do  what 's 
right,  and  I  'd  sit  up  and  work  half  the  night,  if  it  'ud  be  any 
good  .  .  .  but  there  's  them  poor  children  .  .  .  four  of  'em 
such  little  uns  —  " 

"  Don't  cry  so,  aunt  —  don't  fret,"  whispered  Maggie,  who  had 
kept  hold  of  Mrs.  Moss's  hand. 


232  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Did  Mr.  Tulliver  let  you  have  the  money  all  at  once  ?  '* 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  still  lost  in  the  conception  of  things  which 
had  been  "  going  on  "  without  her  knowledge. 

"  ISTo ;  at  twice,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  rubbing  her  eyes  and  mak- 
ing an  effort  to  restrain  her  tears.  "  The  last  was  after  my 
bad  illness,  four  years  ago,  as  everything  went  wrong,  and 
there  was  a  new  note  made  then.  What  with  illness  and  bad 
luck,  I  've  been  nothing  but  cumber  all  my  life." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Moss,"  said  Mrs-  Glegg,  with  decision.  "  Yours 
is  a  very  unlucky  family ;  the  more 's  the  pity  for  my  sister." 

"  I  set  off  in  the  cart  as  soon  as  ever  I  heard  o'  what  had 
happened,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  looking  at  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "  T  should 
never  ha'  stayed  away  all  this  while,  if  you  'd  thought  well  to 
let  me  know.  And  it  is  n't  as  I  'm  thinking  all  about  ourselves, 
and  nothing  about  my  brother  —  only  the  money  was  so  on 
my  mind,  I  could  n't  help  speaking  about  it.  And  my  husband 
and  me  desire  to  do  the  right  thing,  sir,"  she  added,  looking  at 
Mr.  Glegg,  "  and  we  '11  make  shift  and  pay  the  money,  come 
what  will,  if  that 's  all  my  brother  's  got  to  trust  to.  We  've 
been  used  to  trouble,  and  don't  look  for  much  else.  It 's  only 
the  thought  o'  my  poor  children  pulls  me  i'  two." 

"  Why,  there  's  this  to  be  thought  on,  Mrs.  Moss,"  said  Mr. 
Glegg,  "  and  it  right  to  warn  you  ;  —  if  Tulliver  's  made  a 
bankrupt,  anr"  ^le  's  got  a  note-of-hand  of  your  husband's  for 
three  hundrt^a  pounds,  you  '11  be  obliged  to  pay  it :  th'  assign- 
ees 'uU  come  on  you  for  it." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear  ! "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  thinking  of  the 
bankruptcy,  and  not  of  Mrs.  Moss's  concern  in  it.  Poor  Mrs. 
Moss  herself  listened  in  trembling  submission,  while  Maggie 
looked  with  bewildered  distress  at  Tom  to  see  if  he  showed 
any  signs  of  understanding  this  trouble,  and  caring  about  poor 
aunt  Moss.  Tom  was  only  looking  thoughtful,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  table-cloth. 

"  And  if  he  is  n't  made  bankrupt,"  continued  Mr.  Glegg,  "as 
I  said  before,  three  hundred  pounds  'ud  be  a  little  fortin  for 
him,  poor  man.  We  don't  know  but  what  he  may  be  partly 
helpless,  if  he  ever  gets  up  again.  I  'm  very  sorry  if  it  goes 
hard  with  you,  Mrs.  Moss — but  my  opinion  is,  looking  at  it 


THE  DOWNFALL.  233 

one  way,  it  *11  be  right  for  you  to  raise  the  money ;  and  looking 
at  it  th'  other  Avay,  you  '11  be  obliged  to  pay  it.  You  won't 
think  ill  o'  me  for  speaking  the  truth." 

"Uncle,"  said  Tom.  looking  up  suddenly  from  his  meditative 
view  of  the  table-cloth,  "  I  don't  think  it  would  be  right  for  my 
aunt  Moss  to  pay  the  money,  if  it  would  be  against  my  father's 
will  for  her  to  pay  it ;  would  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Glegg  looked  surprised  for  a  moment  or  two  before  he 
said,  "  Why,  no,  perhaps  not,  Tom  ;  but  then  he  'd  ha'  destroyed 
the  note,  you  know.  We  must  look  for  the  note.  What  makes 
you  think  it  'ud  be  against  his  will  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  Tom,  coloring,  but  trying  to  speak  firmly,  in 
spite  of  a  boyish  tremor,  "I  remember  quite  well,  before  I 
went  to  school  to  Mr.  Stelling,  my  father  said  to  me  one  night, 
when  we  were  sitting  by  the  fire  together,  and  no  one  else  was 
in  the  room  —  " 

Tom  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  went  on. 
"  He  said  something  to  me  about  Maggie,  and  then  he  said, 
*I've  always  been  good  to  my  sister,  though  she  married 
against  my  will  —  and  I  've  lent  Moss  money  ;  but  I  shall 
never  think  of  distressing  him  to  pay  it :  I  'd  rather  lose  it. 
My  children  must  not  mind  being  the  poorer  for  that.'  And 
now  my  father's  ill,  and  not  able  to  speak  for  himself,  I 
should  n't  like  anything  to  be  done  contrary  to  what  he  said 
to  me." 

"Well,  but  then,  my  boy,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  whose  good 
feeling  led  him  to  enter  into  Tom's  wish,  but  who  could  not 
at  once  shake  oif  his  habitual  abhorrence  of  such  recklessness 
as  destroying  securities,  or  alienating  anything  important 
enough  to  make  an  appreciable  difference  in  a  man's  property, 
"we  should  have  to  make  away  wi'  the  note,  you  know,  if 
we're  to  guard  against  what  may  happen,  supposing  your 
father's  made  bankrupt  —  " 

"Mr.  Glegg,"  interrupted  his  wife,  severely,  "mind  what 
you  're  saying.  You  're  putting  yourself  very  forrard  in  other 
folks's  business.  If  you  speak  rash,  don't  say  it  was  my 
fault." 

"That 's  such  a  thing  as  I  never  beared  of  before,"  said  uncle 


234  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Pullet,  who  liad  been  making  haste  with  his  lozenge  in  order 
to  express  his  amazement ;  "  making  away  with  a  note  !  J 
should  think  anybody  could  set  the  constable  on  you  for  it." 

"Well,  but,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "if  the  note's  worth  all 
that  money,  why  can't  we  pay  it  away,  and  save  my  things 
from  going  away  ?  We've  no  call  to  meddle  with  your  uncle 
and  aunt  Moss,  Tom,  if  you  think  your  father  'ud  be  angry 
when  he  gets  well." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  not  studied  the  question  of  exchange,  and 
was  straining  her  mind  after  original  ideas  on  the  subject. 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  pooh  !  you  women  don't  understand  these 
things,"  said  uncle  Glegg.  "  There  's  no  way  o'  making  it  safe 
for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moss  but  destroying  the  note." 

"Then  I  hope  you'll  help  me  to  do  it,  uncle,"  said  Tom, 
earnestly.  "  If  my  father  should  n't  get  well,  I  should  be 
very  unhappy  to  think  anything  had  been  done  against  his 
will,  that  I  could  hinder.  And  I  'm  sure  he  meant  me  to 
remember  what  he  said  that  evening.  I  ought  to  obey  my 
father's  wish  about  his  property." 

Even  Mrs.  Glegg  could  not  withhold  her  approval  from 
Tom's  words :  she  felt  that  the  Dodson  blood  was  certainly 
speaking  in  him,  though,  if  his  father  had  been  a  Dodson, 
there  would  never  have  been  this  wicked  alienation  of  money. 
Maggie  would  hardly  have  restrained  herself  from  leaping  on 
Tom's  neck,  if  her  aunt  Moss  had  not  prevented  her  by  herself 
rising  and  taking  Tom's  hand,  while  she  said,  with  rather  a 
choked  voice  — 

"  You  '11  never  be  the  poorer  for  this,  my  dear  boy,  if  there 's 
a  God  above ;  and  if  the  money  's  wanted  for  your  father, 
Moss  and  me  'ull  pay  it,  the  same  as  if  there  was  ever  such 
security.  We  '11  do  as  we  'd  be  done  by  ;  for  if  my  children 
have  got  no  otlier  luck,  they  've  got  an  honest  father  and 
mother." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  who  had  been  meditating  after 
Tom's  words,  "  we  should  n't  be  doing  any  wrong  by  the  credi- 
tors, supposing  your  father  tvas  bankrupt.  I  've  been  thinking 
o'  that,  for  I  've  been  a  creditor  mj^self,  and  seen  no  end  o' 
cheating.     If  he  meant  to  give  your  aunt  the  money  before 


THE   DOWNFALL.  285 

ever  he  got  into  this  sad  work  o'  lawing,  it 's  the  Bame  as  if 
he  'd  made  away  with  the  note  himself  ;  for  he  'd  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  that  much  poorer.  But  there  's  a  deal  o'  things  to 
be  considered,  young  man,"  Mr.  Glegg  added,  looking  admon- 
ishingly  at  Tom,  ^'when  you  come  to  money  business,  and  you 
may  be  taking  one  man's  dinner  away  to  make  another  man's 
breakfast.     You  don't  understand  that,  I  doubt  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Tom,  decidedly.  *' I  know  if  I  owe  money 
to  one  man,  I  've  no  right  to  give  it  to  another.  But  if  my 
father  had  made  up  his  mind  to  give  my  aunt  the  money  before 
he  was  in  debt,  he  had  a  right  to  do  it." 

"  Well  done,  young  man !  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  been  so 
sharp,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  with  much  candor.  "  But  perhaps 
your  father  did  make  away  with  the  note.  Let  us  go  and  see 
if  we  can  find  it  in  the  chest." 

"It's  in  my  father's  room.  Let  us  go  too,  aunt  Gritty," 
whispered  Maggie. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   VANISHING    GLEAM. 

Mr.  Tulliver,  even  between  the  fits  of  spasmodic  rigidity 
which  had  recurred  at  intervals  ever  since  he  had  been  found 
fallen  from  his  horse,  was  usually  in  so  apathetic  a  condition 
that  the  exits  and  entrances  into  his  room  were  not  felt  to  be 
of  great  importance.  He  had  lain  so  still,  with  his  eyes  closed^ 
aU  this  morning,  that  Maggie  told  her  aunt  Moss  she  must  not 
expect  her  father  to  take  any  notice  of  them. 

They  entered  very  quietly,  and  Mrs.  Moss  took  her  seat  near 
the  head  of  the  bed,  while  Maggie  sat  in  her  old  place  on  the 
bed,  and  put  her  hand  on  her  father's  without  causing  any 
change  in  his  face. 

Mr.  Glegg  and  Tom  had  also  entered,  treading  softly,  and 
were  busy  selecting  the  key  of  the  old  oak  chest  from  the 
bunch  which  Tom  had  brought  from  his  father's  bureau.  They 
succeeded  in  opening  the  chest  —  which  stood  opposite  the 


2B6  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

foot  of  Mr.  TuUiver's  bed  —  and  propping  the  lid  with  the 
iron  holder,  without  much  noise. 

"There's  a  tin  box,"  whispered  Mr.  Glegg ;  "he'd  most 
like  put  a  small  thing  like  a  note  in  there.  Lift  it  out,  Tom ; 
but  I  '11  just  lift  up  these  deeds  —  they  're  the  deeds  o'  the 
house  and  mill,  I  suppose  —  and  see  what  there  is  under 
'em." 

Mr.  Glegg  had  lifted  out  the  parchments,  and  had  fortu- 
nately drawn  back  a  little,  when  the  iron  holder  gave  way, 
and  the  heavy  lid  fell  with  a  loud  bang  that  resounded  over 
the  house. 

Perhaps  there  was  something  in  that  sound  more  than  the 
mere  fact  of  the  strong  vibration  that  produced  the  instanta- 
neous effect  on  the  frame  of  the  prostrate  man,  and  for  the 
time  completely  shook  off  the  obstruction  of  paralysis.  The 
chest  had  belonged  to  his  father  and  his  father's  father,  and 
it  had  always  been  rather  a  solemn  business  to  visit  it.  All 
long-known  objects,  even  a  mere  window  fastening  or  a  par- 
ticular door-latch,  have  sounds  which  are  a  sort  of  recognized 
voice  to  us  —  a  voice  that  will  thrill  and  awaken,  when  it  has 
been  used  to  touch  deep-lying  fibres.  In  the  same  moment 
when  all  the  eyes  in  the  room  were  turned  upon  him,  he 
started  up  and  looked  at  the.  chest,  the  parchments  in  Mr. 
Glegg's  hand,  and  Tom  holding  the  tin  box,  with  a  glance  of 
perfect  consciousness  and  recognition. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  those  deeds  ?  "  he  said,  in 
his  ordinary  tone  of  sharp  questioning  whenever  he  was  irri- 
tated. "  Come  here,  Tom.  What  do  you  do,  going  to  my 
chest  ?  " 

Tom  obeyed,  with  some  trembling  :  it  was  the  first  time  his 
father  had  recognized  him.  But  instead  of  saying  anything 
more  to  him,  his  father  continued  to  look  with  a  growing  dis- 
tinctness of  suspicion  at  Mr.  Glegg  and  the  deeds. 

"  What 's  been  happening,  then  ?  "  he  said,  sharply.  "  What 
are  you  meddling  with  my  deeds  for  ?  Is  Wakem  laying  hold 
of  everything  ?  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  you  've  been 
a-doing  ?  "  he  added,  impatiently,  as  Mr.  Glegg  advanced  to 
the  foot  of  the  bed  before  speaking. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  237 

"  No,  no,  friend  Tulliver,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  a  soothing 
tone.  "  Nobody  's  getting  hold  of  anything  as  yet.  We  only 
came  to  look  and  see  what  was  in  the  chest.  You  've  been 
ill,  you  know,  and  we  've  had  to  look  after  things  a  bit.  But 
let 's  hope  you  '11  soon  be  well  enough  to  attend  to  everything 
yourself." 

Mr.  Tulliver  looked  round  him  meditatively  —  at  Tom,  at 
Mr.  Glegg,  and  at  Maggie  ;  then  suddenly  appearing  aware 
that  some  one  was  seated  by  his  side  at  the  head  of  the  bed, 
he  turned  sharply  round  and  saw  his  sister. 

"  Eh,  Gritty !  "  he  said,  in  the  half-sad,  affectionate  tone 
in  which  he  had  been  wont  to  speak  to  her.  "  What  ! 
you  're  there,  are  you  ?  How  could  you  manage  to  leave  the 
children  ?  " 

"  Oh,  brother  !  "  said  good  Mrs.  Moss,  too  impulsive  to  be 
prudent,  "  I  'm  thankful  I  'm  come  now  to  see  you  yourself 
again  —  I  thought  you  'd  never  know  us  any  more." 

"  What !  have  I  had  a  stroke  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  anxiously, 
looking  at  Mr.  Glegg. 

"  A  fall  from  your  horse  —  shook  you  a  bit  —  that 's  all,  I 
think,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  But  you  '11  soon  get  over  it,  let 's 
hope." 

Mr.  Tulliver  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  bed-clothes,  and  remained 
silent  for  two  or  three  minutes.  A  new  shadow  came  over 
his  face.  He  looked  up  at  Maggie  first,  and  said  in  a  lower 
tone,  "  You  got  the  letter,  then,  my  wench  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,"  she  said,  kissing  him  with  a  full  heart.  She 
felt  as  if  her  father  were  come  back  to  her  from  the  dead, 
and  her  yearning  to  show  him  how  she  had  always  loved  him 
could  be  fulfilled. 

"  Where  's  your  mother  ?  "  he  said,  so  preoccupied  that  he 
received  the  kiss  as  passively  as  some  quiet  animal  might 
have  received  it. 

"  She 's  down-stairs  with  my  aunts,  father  :  shall  I  fetch 
her  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay  :  poor  Bessy  !  "  and  his  eyes  turned  towards  Tom 
as  Maggie  left  the  room.  , 

"  You  '11  have  to  take  care  of  'em  both  if  I  die,  you  know, 


238  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Tom.  You  '11  be  badly  olf,  I  doubt.  But  you  must  see  and 
pay  everybody.  And  mind  —  there  's  fifty  pound  o'  Luke's 
as  1  put  into  the  business  —  he  gave  it  me  a  bit  at  a  time,  and 
he  's  got  nothing  to  show  for  it.  You  must  pay  him  first 
thing." 

Cncle  Glegg  involuntarily  shook  his  head,  and  looked  more 
concerned  than  ever,  but  Tom  said  firmly  — 

"  Yes,  father.  And  have  n't  you  a  note  from  my  uncle 
Moss  for  three  hundred  pounds  ?  We  came  to  look  for  that. 
What  do  you  wish  to  be  done  about  it,  father  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  I  'm  glad  you  thought  o'  that,  my  lad,"  said  Mr. 
Tulliver.  "  I  allays  meant  to  be  easy  about  that  money, 
because  o'  your  aunt.  You  must  n't  mind  losing  the  money, 
if  they  can't  pay  it  —  and  it 's  like  enough  they  can't.  The 
note  's  in  that  box,  mind  !  I  allays  meant  to  be  good  to  you. 
Gritty,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  turning  to  his  sister  ;  "  but,  you 
know,  you  aggravated  me  when  you  would  have  Moss." 

At  this  moment  Maggie  re-entered  with  her  mother,  who 
came  in  much  agitated  by  the  news  that  her  husband  was 
quite  himself  again. 

"Well,  Bessy,"  he  said,  as  she  kissed  him,  "you  must  for- 
give me  if  you  're  worse  off  than  you  ever  expected  to  be. 
But  it's  the  fault  o'  the  law  —  it's  none  o'  mine,"  he  added, 
angrily.  "It's  the  fault  o'  raskills  !  Tom  — you  mind  this 
if  ever  you  've  got  the  chance,  you  make  Wakem  smart.  If 
you  don't,  you  're  a  good-for-nothing  son.  You  might  horse- 
whip him  —  but  he  'd  set  the  law  on  you  —  the  law 's  made  to 
take  care  o'  raskills." 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  getting  excited,  and  an  alarming  flush  was 
on  his  face.  Mr.  Glegg  wanted  to  say  something  soothing, 
but  he  was  prevented  by  Mr.  Tulliver's  speaking  again  to  his 
wife.  "  They  '11  make  a  shift  to  pay  everything,  Bessy,"  he 
said,  "  and  yet  leave  you  your  furniture  ;  and  your  sisters  '11 
do  something  for  you  .  .  .  and  Tom  '11  grow  up  .  .  .  though 
what  he  's  to  be  I  don't  know  ...  I  've  done  what  I  could 
.  .  .  I  've  given  him  a  eddication  ,  .  .  and  there  's  the  little 
wench,  she  '11  get  married  .  .  .  but  it 's  a  poor  tale  • — ■ " 

The  sanative  effect  of  the  strong  vibration  was  exhausted, 


THE   DOWNFALL.  239 

and  with  the  last  words  the  poor  man  fell  again,  rigid  and 
insensible.  Thougli  this  was  only  a  recurrence  of  what  had 
happened  before,  it  struck  all  present  as  if  it  had  been  death, 
not  only  from  its  contrast  with  the  completeness  of  the 
revival,  but  because  his  words  had  all  had  reference  to  the 
possibility  that  his  death  was  near.  But  with  poor  Tulliver 
death  was  not  to  be  a  leap :  it  was  to  be  a  long  descent  under 
thickening  sliadows. 

Mr.  Turnbull  was  sent  for  ;  but  when  he  heard  what  had 
passed,  he  said  this  complete  restoration,  though  only  tem- 
porary, was  a  hopeful  sign,  proving  that  there  was  no  perma- 
nent lesion  to  prevent  ultimate  recovery. 

Among  the  threads  of  the  past  which  the  stricken  man  had 
gathered  up,  he  had  omitted  the  bill  of  sale ;  the  flash  of 
memory  had  only  lit  up  prominent  ideas,  and  he  sank  into 
forgetfulness  again  with  half  his  humiliation  unlearned. 

But  Tom  was  clear  upon  two  points  —  that  his  uncle 
Moss's  note  must  be  destroyed,  and  that  Luke's  money  must 
be  paid,  if  in  no  other  way,  oui  of  his  own  and  Maggie's 
money  now  in  the  savings  bank.  There  were  subjects,  you 
perceive,  on  which  Tom  was  much  quicker  than  on  the 
niceties  of  classical  construction,  or  the  relations  of  a  mathe- 
matical demonstration. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TOM    APPLIES    HIS    KNIFE    TO    THE    OYSTER. 

The  next  day,  at  ten  o'clock,  Tom  was  on  his  way  to  St. 
Ogg's,  to  see  his  uncle  Deane,  who  was  to  come  home  last 
night,  his  aunt  had  said  ;  and  Tom  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  his  uncle  Deane  was  the  right  person  to  ask  for  advice 
about  getting  some  employment.  He  was  in  a  great  way  of 
business  ;  he  had  not  the  narrow  notions  of  uncle  Glegg ;  and 
he  had  risen  in  the  world  on  a  scale  of  advancement  which 
accorded  with  Tom's  ambition. 


240  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

It  was  a  dark,  chill,  misty  morning,  likely  to  end  in  rain  — 
one  of  those  mornings  when  even  happy  people  take  refuge  in 
their  hopes.  And  Tom  was  very  unhappy  :  he  felt  the  humil- 
iation as  well  as  the  prospective  hardships  of  his  lot  with  all 
the  keenness  of  a  proud  nature;  and  with  all  his  resolute 
dutifuluess  towards  his  father  there  mingled  an  irrepressible 
indignation  against  him  which  gave  misfortune  the  less  endur- 
able aspect  of  a  wrong.  Since  these  were  the  consequences  of 
going  to  law,  his  father  was  really  blauiable,  as  his  aunts  and 
uncles  had  always  said  he  was ;  and  it  was  a  significant  indi- 
cation of  Tom's  character,  that  though  he  thought  his  aunts 
ought  to  do  something  more  for  his  mother,  he  felt  nothing 
like  Maggie's  violent  resentment  against  them  for  showing  no 
eager  tenderness  and  generosity.  There  were  no  impulses  in 
Tom  that  led  him  to  expect  what  did  not  present  itself  to  him 
as  a  right  to  be  demanded.  Why  should  people  give  away 
their  money  plentifully  to  those  who  had  not  taken  care  of 
their  own  money?  Tom  saw  some  justice  in  severity;  and 
all  the  more,  because  he  had  confidence  in  himself  that  he 
should  never  deserve  that  just  severity.  It  was  very  hard 
upon  him  that  he  should  be  put  at  this  disadvantage  in  life  by 
his  father's  want  of  prudence ;  but  he  was  not  going  to  com- 
plain and  to  find  fault  with  people  because  they  did  not  make 
everything  easy  for  him.  He  would  ask  no  one  to  help  him, 
more  than  to  give  him  work  and  pay  him  for  it.  Poor  Tom 
was  not  without  his  hopes  to  take  refuge  in  under  the  chill 
damp  imprisonment  of  the  December  fog  which  seemed  only 
like  a  part  of  his  home  troubles.  At  sixteen,  the  mind  that 
has  the  strongest  affinity  for  fact  cannot  escape  illusion  and 
self-flattery  ;  and  Tom,  in  sketching  his  future,  had  no  other 
guide  in  arranging  his  facts  than  the  suggestions  of  his  own 
brave  self-reliance.  Both  Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane,  he  knew, 
had  been  very  poor  once ;  he  did  not  want  to  save  money 
slowly  and  retire  on  a  moderate  fortune  like  his  uncle  Glegg, 
but  he  would  be  like  his  uncle  Deane  —  get  a  situation  in 
some  great  house  of  business  and  rise  fast.  He  had  scarcely 
seen  anything  of  his  uncle  Deane  for  the  last  three  years  — 
the  two  families  had  been  getting  wider  apart ;  but  for  this 


THE  DOWNFALL.  241 

^ery  reason  Tom  was  the  more  hopeful  about  applying  to  him. 
His  uncle  Glegg,  he  felt  sure,  would  never  encourage  any 
spirited  project,  but  he  had  a  vague  imposing  idea  of  the  re- 
sources  at  his  uncle  Deane's  command.  He  had  heard  his 
father  say,  long  ago,  how  Deaue  had  made  himself  so  valuable 
bo  Guest  &  Co.  that  they  were  glad  enough  to  offer  him  a 
share  in  the  business  :  that  was  what  Tom  resolved  he  would 
lo.  It  was  intolerable  to  think  of  being  poor  and  looked 
down  upon  all  one's  life.  He  would  provide  for  his  mother 
ind  sister,  and  make  every  one  say  that  he  was  a  man  of  high 
jharacter.  He  leaped  over  the  years  in  this  way,  and  in  the 
liaste  of  strong  purpose  and  strong  desire,  did  not  see  how 
they  would  be  made  up  of  slow  days,  hours,  and  minutes. 

By  the  time  he  had  crossed  the  stone  bridge  over  the  Floss 
and  was  entering  St.  Ogg's,  he  was  thinking  that  he  would 
buy  his  father's  mill  and  land  again  when  he  was  rich  enough, 
and  improve  the  house  and  live  there  :  he  should  prefer  it  to 
any  smarter,  newer  place,  and  he  could  keep  as  many  horses 
and  dogs  as  he  liked. 

Walking  along  the  street  with  a  firm,  rapid  step,  at  this 
jpoint  in  his  reverie  he  was  startled  by  some  one  who  had 
Icrossed  without  his  notice,  and  who  said  to  him  in  a  rough, 
Ifamiliar  voice  — 

"  Why,  Master  Tom,  how  's  your  father  this  morning  ?  "  It 
was  a  publican  of  St.  Ogg's  —  one  of -his  father's  customers. 

Tom  disliked  being  spoken  to  just  then ;  but  he  said  civilly, 
"  He 's  still  very  ill,  thank  you." 

"  Ay,  it 's  been  a  sore  chance  for  you,  young  man,  has  n't 
lit  ?  —  this  lawsuit  turning  out  against  him,"  said  the  publican, 
jwith  a  confused  beery  idea  of  being  good-natured. 

Tom  reddened  and  passed  on :  he  would  have  felt  it  like  the 
handling  of  a  bruise,  even  if  there  had  been  the  most  polite 
and  delicate  reference  to  his  position. 

'•  That 's  Tulliver's  son,"  said  the  publican  to  a  grocer  stand- 
ing on  the  adjacent  door-step. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  grocer,  "  I  thought  I  knew  his  features. 
He  takes  after  his  mother's  family :  she  was  a  Dodson.  He  's 
a  fine,  straight  youth  :  what 's  he  been  brought  up  to  ?  " 

VOL.    II.  16 


242  THE  MILI.   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Oh !  to  turn  up  his  nose  at  his  father's  customers,  and  be 
a  line  gentleman  —  not  much  else,  I  think." 

Tom,  roused  from  his  dream  of  the  future  to  a  thorough  con- 
sciousness of  the  present,  made  all  the  greater  haste  to  reach 
the  warehouse  offices  of  Guest  &  Co.,  where  he  expected  to 
find  his  uncle  Deane.  But  this  was  Mr.  Deane's  morning  at 
the  bank,  a  clerk  told  him,  with  some  contempt  for  his  igno- 
rance :  Mr.  Deane  was  not  to  be  found  in  River  Street  on  a 
Thursday  morning. 

At  the  bank  Tom  was  admitted  into  the  private  room  where 
his  uncle  was,  immediately  after  sending  in  his  name.  Mr. 
Deane  was  auditing  accounts ;  but  he  looked  up  as  Tom  en- 
tered, and,  putting  out  his  hand,  said,  "  Well,  Tom,  nothing 
fresh  the  matter  at  home,  I  hope  ?     How  's  your  father  ?  " 

"  Much  the  same,  thank  you,  uncle,"  said  Tom,  feeling  ner- 
vous. "■  But  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  please,  when  you  're  at 
liberty." 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  relapsing  into  his 
accounts,  in  which  he  and  the  managing-clerk  remained  so 
absorbed  for  the  next  half-hour  that  Tom  began  to  wonder 
whether  he  should  have  to  sit  in  this  way  till  the  bank  closed 
—  there  seemed  so  little  tendency  towards  a  conclusion  in  the 
quiet  monotonous  procedure  of  these  sleek,  prosperous  men  of 
business.  Would  his  uncle  give  him  a  place  in  the  bank  ?  it 
would  be  very  dull,  prosy  work,  he  thought,  writing  there  for- 
over  to  the  loud  ticking  of  a  time-piece.  He  preferred  some 
other  way  of  getting  rich.  But  at  last  there  was  a  change : 
his  uncle  took  a  pen  and  wrote  something  with  a  flourish  at 
the  end. 

"  You  '11  just  step  up  to  Torry's  now,  Mr.  Spence,  will  you  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Deane,  and  the  clock  suddenly  became  less  loud  and 
deliberate  in  Tom's  ears. 

"  Well,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  when  they  were  alone,  tui-n- 
ing  his  substantial  person  a  little  in  his  chair,  and  taking  out 
his  snuff-box,  "  what 's  the  business,  my  boy  —  what 's  the 
business  ?  "  Mr.  Deane,  who  had  heard  from  his  wife  what 
had  passed  the  day  before,  thought  Tom  was  come  to  appeal 
to  him  fox  soma  means  of  averting  the  sale. 


THE   DOWNFALL.  243 

"  I  hope  you  '11  excuse  me  for  troubling  you,  uncle,"  said 
Tom,  coloring,  but  speaking  in  a  tone  which,  though  tremu- 
lous, had  a  certain  proud  independence  in  it ;  "  but  I  thought 
you  were  the  best  person  to  advise  me  what  to  do." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Deane,  reserving  his  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
looking  at  Tom  with  new  attention,  "  let  us  hear." 

"  I  want  to  get  a  situation,  uncle,  so  that  I  may  earn  some 
money,"  said  Tom,  who  never  fell  into  circumlocution. 

"  A  situation  ?  "  said  Mr.  Deane,  and  then  took  his  pinch 
of  snuff  with  elaborate  justice  to  each  nostril.  Tom  thought 
snuff-taking  a  most  provoking  habit. 

"  Why,  let  me  see,  how  old  are  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Deane,  as 
he  threw  himself  backward  again, 

"  Sixteen  —  I  mean,  I  am  going  in  seventeen,"  said  Tom, 
hoping  his  uncle  noticed  how  much  beard  he  had. 

"Let  me  see  —  your  father  had  some  notion  of  making  you 
an  engineer,  I  think  ?  " 

I     "But  I  don't  think  I  could  get  any  money  at  that  for  a  long 
! while,  could  I?" 

I  "  That 's  true  ;  but  people  don't  get  much  money  at  anything, 
I  my  boy,  when  they  're  only  sixteen.  You  've  had  a  good  deal 
j  of  schooling,  however ;  I  suppose  you  're  pretty  well  up  in 
I  accounts,  eh  ?  You  understand  book-keeping  ?  " 
I  "No,"  said  Tom,  rather  falteringly.  "I  was  in  Practice. 
But  Mr.  Stelling  says  I  write  a  good  hand,  uncle.  That 's  my 
:  writing,"  added  Tom,  laying  on  the  table  a  copy  of  the  list  he 
had  made  yesterday. 

"  Ah  !  that 's  good,  that 's  good.  But,  you  see,  the  best  hand 
in  the  world  '11  not  get  you  a  better  place  than  a  copying- 
clerk's,  if  you  know  nothing  of  book-keeping  — nothing  of  ac- 
counts. And  a  copying-clerk 's  a  cheap  article.  But  what 
have  you  been  learning  at  school,  then  ?  " 

Mr.  Deane  had  not  occupied  himself  with  methods  of  edu- 
cation, and  had  no  precise  conception  of  what  went  forward 
in  expensive  schools. 

"We  learned  Latin,"  said  Tom,  pausing  a  little  between 
each  item,  as  if  he  were  turning  over  the  books  in  his  school- 
desk  to  assist  his  memory  -     "  a  good  deal  of  Latin ;  and  the 


244  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

last  year  I  did  Themes,  one  week  in  Latin  and  one  in  English  j 
and  Greek  and  Roman  History ;  and  Euclid ;  and  I  began  Al- 
gebra, but  I  left  it  off  again ;  and  we  had  one  day  every  week 
for  Arithmetic.  Then  I  used  to  have  drawing-lessons ;  and 
there  were  several  other  books  we  either  read  or  learned  out 
of,  English  Poetry,  and  Horae  Paulinse,  and  Blair's  Rhetoric, 
the  last  half." 

Mr.  Deane  tapped  his  snuff-box  again,  and  screwed  up  his 
mouth :  he  felt  in  the  position  of  many  estimable  persons 
when  they  had  read  the  New  Tariff,  and  found  how  many  com- 
modities were  imported  of  which  they  knew  nothing :  like  a 
cautious  man  of  business,  he  was  not  going  to  speak  rashly  of 
a  raw  material  in  which  he  had  had  no  experience.  But  the 
presumption  was,  that  if  it  had  been  good  for  anything,  so  suc- 
cessful a  man  as  himself  would  hardly  have  been  ignorant  of 
it.  About  Latin  he  had  an  opinion,  and  thought  that  in  case 
of  another  war,  since  people  would  no  longer  wear  hair-powder, 
it  would  be  well  to  put  a  tax  upon  Latin,  as  a  luxury  much 
run  upon  by  the  higher  classes,  and  not  telling  at  all  on  the 
ship-owning  department.  But,  for  what  he  knew,  the  Horae 
Paulinge  might  be  something  less  neutral.  On  the  whole,  this 
list  of  acquirements  gave  him  a  sort  of  repulsion  towards  poor 
Tom. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  rather  a  cold,  sardonic  tone, 
"  you  ' ve  had  three  years  at  these  things  —  you  must  be  pretty 
strong  in  'em.  Had  n't  you  better  take  up  some  line  where 
they  '11  come  in  handy  ?  " 

Tom  colored,  and  burst  out,  with  new  energy  — 

"  I  'd  rather  not  have  any  employment  of  that  sort,  uncle. 
I  don't  like  Latin  and  those  things.  I  don't  know  what  I 
could  do  with  them  unless  I  went  as  usher  in  a  school ;  and 
I  don't  know  them  well  enough  for  that :  besides,  I  would  as 
soon  carry  a  pair  of  panniers.  I  don't  want  to  be  that  sort 
of  person.  I  should  like  to  enter  into  some  business  where 
I  can  get  on  —  a  manly  business,  where  I  should  have  to  look 
after  things,  and  get  credit  for  what  I  did.  And  I  shall  want 
to  keep  my  mother  and  sister." 

"  Ah,  young  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  with  that  tendency 


THE  DOWNFALL.  245 

to  repress  youthful  hopes  which  stout  and  successful  men  of 
fifty  find  one  of  their  easiest  duties,  "  that 's  sooner  said  than 
done  —  sooner  said  than  done." 

I  "But  didn't  you  get  on  in  that  way,  uncle?"  said  Tom, 
ia  little  irritated  that  Mr.  Deane  did  not  enter  more  rapidly 
into  his  views.  "I  mean,  didn't  you  rise  from  one  place  to 
another  through  your  abilities  and  good  conduct  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  Mr.    Deane,  spreading  himself  in  his 
chair  a  little,  and  entering  with  great  readiness  into  a  retro- 
spect of  his  own  career.     "But  I'll  tell  you  how  I  got  on. 
It  wasn't  by  getting  astride  a  stick,  and  thinking  it  would 
turn  into  a  horse  if  I  sat  on  it  long  enough.     I  kept  my  eyes 
and  ears  open,  sir,  and  I  was  n't  too  fond  of  my  own  back,  and 
|I  made  my  master's  interest  my  own.     Why,  with  only  look- 
ling  into  what  went  on  in  the  mill,  I  found  out  how  there  was 
,a  waste  of  five  hundred  a-year  that  might  be  hindered.     Why, 
'sir,  I  had  n't  more  schooling  to  begin  with  than  a  charity  boy ; 
but  I  saw  pretty  soon  that  I  couldn't  get  on  far  without  mas- 
tering accounts,  and  I  learned  'em  between  working  hours, 
after  I  'd  been  unlading.     Look  here."     Mr.  Deane  opened  a 
book,  and  pointed  to  the  page.     "  I  write  a  good  hand  enough, 
and  I  '11  match  anybody  at  all  sorts  of  reckoning  by  the  head, 
and  I  got  it  all  by  hard  work,  and  paid  for  it  out  of  my  own 
earnings  —  often  out  of  my  own  dinner  and  supper.     And  I 
looked  into  the  nature  of  all  the  things  we  had  to  do  with  in 
the  business,  and  picked  up  knowledge  as  I  went  about  my 
work,  and  turned  it  over  in  my  head.     Why,  I  'm  no  mechanic 
—  I  never  pretended  to  be  — but  I  've  thought  of  a  thing  or 
two  that  the  mechanics  never  thought  of,  and  it 's  made  a  fine 
difference  in  our  returns.     And  there  is  n't  an  article  shipped 
or  unshipped  at  our  wharf  but  I  know  the  quality  of  it.     If 
I  got  places,  sir,  it  was  because  I  made  myself  fit  for  'em.     If 
you  want  to  slip  into  a  round  hole,  you  must  make  a  ball  of 
yourself  —  that 's  where  it  is." 

Mr.  Deane  tapped  his  box  again.  He  had  been  led  on  by 
pure  enthusiasm  in  his  subject,  and  had  really  forgotten  what 
bearing  this  retrospective  survey  had  on  his  listener.  He  had 
found   occasion   for  saying   tlie   same  thing  more   than  onoe 


246  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

before,  and  was  not  distinctly  aware  that  he  had  not  his  port- 
wine  before  him, 

"  Well,  uncle,"  said  Tom,  with  a  slight  complaint  in  hia 
tone,  "that's  what  I  should  like  to  do.  Can't  /  get  on  in 
the  same  way  ?  " 

"  In  the  same  way  ? "  said  Mr.  Deane,  eying  Tom  with 
quiet  deliberation.  "  There  go  two  or  three  questions  to  that, 
Master  Tom.  That  depends  on  what  sort  of  i-naterial  you  are, 
to  begin  with,  and  whether  you  've  been  put  into  the  right 
mill.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is.  Your  poor  father  went 
the  wrong  way  to  work  in  giving  you  an  education.  It  was  n't 
my  business,  and  I  did  n't  interfere :  but  it  is  as  I  thought  it 
would  be.  You  've  had  a  sort  of  learning  that 's  all  very  well 
for  a  young  fellow  like  our  Mr.  Stexjhen  Guest,  who  '11  have 
nothing  to  do  but  sign  checks  all  his  life,  and  may  as  well 
have  Latin  inside  nis  head  as  any  other  sort  of  stuffing." 

"But,  uncle,"  said  Tom,  earnestly,  -'I  don't  see  why  the 
Latin  need  hinder  me  from  getting  on  in  business.  I  shall 
soon  forget  it  all :  it  makes  no  difference  to  me.  I  had  to  do 
my  lessons  at  school ;  but  I  always  thought  they  'd  never  be 
of  any  use  to  me  afterwards  —  I  didn't  care  about  them." 

"  Ay,  ay,  that 's  all  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Deane ;   "  but  it 
does  n't  alter  what  I  was  going  to  say.     Your  Latin  and  rig- 
marole may  soon  dry  off  you,  but  you  '11  be  but  a  bare  stick 
after  that.     Besides,  it 's  whitened  your  hands  and  taken  the 
rough  work  out  of  you.     And  what  do  you  know  ?     Why,  you 
know  nothing  about  book-keeping,  to  begin  with,  and  not  soi 
much  of  reckoning  as  a  common  shopman.     You'll  have  toi 
begin  at  a  low  round  of  the  ladder,  let  me  tell  you,  if  you 
mean  to  get  on  in  life.     It 's  no  use  forgetting  the  education  i 
your  father 's  been  paying  for,  if  you  don't  give  yourself  ? 
new  un." 

Tom  bit  his  lips  hard;  he  felt  as  if  the  tears  were  rising, 
and  he  would  rather  die  than  let  them.  i 

"You  want  me  to  help  you  to  a  situation,"  Mr.  Deane  wen1| 
on ;  "  well,  I  've  no  fault  to  find  with  that.     I  'm  willing  to  d( 
something   for  you.      But    you   youngsters   nowadays   thinl 
you're  to  begin  with  living  well  and  working  easy:  you'vi 

i 
jj_ 


THE   DOWNFALL.  247 

no  notion  of  running  afoot  before  you  get  on  horseback 
Now,  you  must  remember  wliat  you  are  —  you  're  a  lad  of 
sixteen,  trained  to  nothing  particular.  There  's  heaps  of  your 
sort,  like  so  many  pebbles,  made  to  fit  in  nowhere.  Well,  you 
might  be  apprenticed  to  some  business  —  a  chemist's  and 
druggist's  perhaps  :  your  Latin  might  come  in  a  bit  there  — " 

Tom  was  going  to  speak,  but  Mr.  Deane  put  up  his  hand 
and  said  — 

"  Stop  !  hear  what  I  "ve  got  to  say.  You  don't  want  to  be 
a  'prentice  —  I  know,  I  know  —  you  want  to  make  more  haste 
— .and  you  don't  want  to  stand  behind  a  counter.  But  if 
you're  a  copying-clerk,  you'll  have  to  stand  bi-hind  a  desk, 
and  stare  at  your  ink  and  paper  all  day  :  there  is  n't  much 
out-look  there,  and  you  won't  be  much  wiser  at  the  end  of  the 
year  than  at  the  beginning.  The  world  isn't  made  of  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  and  if  you  're  to  get  on  in  the  world,  young 
man,  you  must  know  what  the  world's  made  of.  Now  the 
best  chance  for  you  'ud  be  to  have  a  place  on  a  wharf,  or  in  a 
warehouse,  where  you  'd  learn  the  smell  of  things  —  but  you 
would  n't  like  that,  I  '11  be  bound ;  you  'd  have  to  stand  cold 
and  wet,  and  be  shouldered  about  by  rough  fellows.  You  're 
too  fine  a  gentleman  for  that." 

Mr.  Deane  paused  and  looked  hard  at  Tom,  who  certainly 
felt  some  inward  struggle  before  he  could  reply. 

"  I  would  rather  do  what  will  be  best  for  me  in  the  end, 
sir:  I  would  put  up  with  what  was  disagreeable." 

"  That 's  well,  if  you  can  carry  it  out.  But  you  must  re- 
member it  is  n't  only  laying  hold  of  a  rope  —  3'ou  must  go  on 
pulling.  It 's  the  mistake  you  lads  make  that  have  got  noth- 
ing either  in  your  brains  or  your  pocket,  to  think  you  've  got 
a  better  start  in  the  world  if  you  stick  yourselves  in  a  place 
where  you  can  keep  your  coats  clean,  and  have  the  shop- 
wenches  take  you  for  fine  gentlemen.  That  wasn't  the  way 
/  started,  young  man  :  when  I  was  sixteen,  my  jacket  smelt 
of  tar,  and  I  was  n't  afraid  of  handling  cheeses.  That 's  the 
reason  I  can  wear  good  broadcloth  now,  and  have  my  legs 
under  the  same  table  with  the  head*  of  the  best  firmg  in 
St.  Ugg's." 


248  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Uncle  Deane  tapped  liis  box,  and  seemed  to  expand  a  little 
under  his  waistcoat  and  gold  chain,  as  he  squared  his  shoulders 
in  the  chair. 

"  Is  there  any  place  at  liberty  that  you  know  of  now,  uncle, 
that  I  should  do  for  ?  I  should  like  to  set  to  work  at  once," 
said  Tom,  with  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"  Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit ;  we  must  n't  be  in  too  great  a  hurry. 
You  must  bear  in  mind,  if  I  put  you  in  a  place  you  're  a  bit 
young  for,  because  you  happen  to  be  my  nephew,  I  shall  be 
responsible  for  you.  And  there  's  no  better  reason,  you  know, 
than  your  being  my  nephew;  because  it  remains  to  be  seen 
whetlier  you  're  good  for  anything." 

"  I  hope  I  should  never  do  you  any  discredit,  uncle,"  said 
Tom,  hurt,  as  all  boys  are  at  the  statement  of  the  unpleasant 
truth  that  people  feel  no  ground  for  trusting  them.  "  I  care 
about  my  own  credit  too  much  for  that." 

"  Well  done,  Tom,  well  done  !  That 's  the  right  spirit,  and 
I  never  refuse  to  help  anybody  if  they  've  a  mind  to  do  them- 
selves justice.  There's  a  young  man  of  two-and-twenty  I've 
got  my  eye  on  now.  I  shall  do  what  I  can  for  that  young 
man  —  he 's  got  some  pith  in  him.  But  then,  you  see,  he 's 
made  good  use  of  his  time  —  a  first-rate  calculator  —  can  tell 
you  the  cubic  contents  of  anything  in  no  time,  and  put  me  up 
the  other  day  to  a  new  market  for  Swedish  bark  ;  he 's  un- 
commonly knowing  in  manufactures,  that  young  fellow." 

"  I  'd   better   set   about   learning   book-keeping,   had  n't  I, 
uncle  ?  "   said  Tom,  anxious  to  prove  his  readiness  to  exert ' 
himself. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  can't  do  amiss  there.  But  ...  ah,  Spence, 
you  're  back  again.  Well,  Tom,  there 's  nothing  more  to  be 
said  just  now,  I  think,  and  I  must  go  to  business  again.  Good-  [ 
by.     Kemember  me  to  your  mother." 

Mr.  Deane  put  out   his  hand,  with  an  air  of  friendly  dis- 
missal, and    Tom  had   not  courage   to  ask  another  question., 
especially  in  the  presence  of   Mr.   Spence.     So  he  went  o\xv 
again  into   the  cold  damp  air.     He  had  to  call  at  his  unclf 
Glegg's  about   the    money  in  the  Savings  Bank,  and  by  tin 
time  he  set  out  again,  the  mist  had  thickened,  and  he  couli 


THE  DOWNFALL.  249 

not  see  very  far  before  him  ;  but  going  along  River  Street 
again,  he  was  startled,  when  he  was  within  two  yards  of  the 
projecting  side  of  a  shop-window,  by  the  words  ''Dorlcote 
Mill "  in  large  letters  on  a  hand-bill,  placed  as  if  on  purpose 
to  stare  at  him.  It  was  the  catalogue  of  the  sale  to  take  place 
the  next  week  —  it  was  a  reason  for  hurrying  faster  out  of 
the  town. 

Poor  Tom  formed  no  visions  of  the  distant  future  as  he 
made  his  way  homeward ;  he  only  felt  that  the  present  was 
very  hard.  It  seemed  a  wrong  towards  him  that  his  uncle 
Deane  had  no  confidence  in  him  —  did  not  see  at  once  that 
he  should  acquit  himself  Avell,  which  Tom  himself  was  as 
certain  of  as  of  the  daylight.  Apparently  he,  Tom  Tulliver, 
was  likely  to  be  held  of  small  account  in  the  world,  and  for 
the  first  time  he  felt  a  sinking  of  heart  under  the  sense  that 
jhe  really  was  very  ignorant,  and  could  do  very  little.  Who 
■was  that  enviable  young  man,  tha+  could  tell  the  cubic  con- 
tents of  things  in  no  time,  and  make  suggestions  about  Swedish 
bark?  Swedish  bark!  Tom  had  been  used  to  be  so  entirely 
satisfied  with  himself  in  spite  of  his  breaking  down  in  a 
demonstration,  and  construing  nimc  illas  promite  vires,  as 
"  now  promise  those  men ; "  but  now  he  suddenly  felt  at  a 
disadvantage,  because  he  knew  less  than  some  one  else  knew. 
There  must  be  a  world  of  things  connected  with  that  Swedish 
bark,  which,  if  he  only  knew  them,  might  have  helped  him  to 
get  on.  It  would  have  been  much  easier  to  make  a  figure  with 
a  spirited  horse  and  a  new  saddle. 

Two  hours  ago,  as  Tom  was  walking  to  St.  Ogg's,  he  saw 
he  distant  future  before  him,  as  he  might  have  seen  a  tempt- 
ing stretch  of  smooth  sandy  beach  beyond  a  belt  of  flinty 
shingles ;  he  was  on  the  grassy  bank  then,  and  thought  the 
bhingles  might  soon  be  passed.  But  now  his  feet  were  on 
the  sharp  stones ;  the  bolt  of  shingles  had  widened,  and  the 
Stretch  of  sand  had  dwindled  into  narrowness. 

"What  did  my  uncle  Deane  say,  Tom?"  said  Maggie, 
butting  her  arm  through  Tom's  as  he  was  warming  himself 
jrather  drearily  by  the  kitchen  fire.  "  Did  he  say  he  would 
bive  you  a  situation  ?  " 


250  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

*'  No,  he  did  n't  say  that.  He  did  n't  quite  promise  me 
anything ;  he  seemed  to  think  I  cuuld  n't  have  a  very  good 
situation.     I  'm  too  young."' 

"  But  did  n't  he  speak  kindly,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Kindly  ?  Pooh  !  what 's  the  use  of  talking  about  that  ? 
I  would  n't  care  about  his  speaking  kindly,  if  I  could  get  a 
situation.  But  it 's  such  a  nuisance  and  bother  —  I  've  been 
at  school  all  this  while  learning  Latin  and  things  —  not  a  bit 
of  good  to  me  —  and  now  my  uncle  says,  I  must  set  about 
learning  book-keeping  and  calculation,  and  those  things.  He 
seems  to  make  out  I  'm  good  for  nothing." 

Tom's  mouth  twitched  with  a  bitter  expression  as  he  looked 
at  the  fire. 

"  Oh  what  a  pity  we  have  n't  got  Dominie  Sampson  !  "  said 
Maggie,  who  could  n't  help  mingling  some  gayety  with  their 
sadness.  "  If  he  had  taught  me  book-keeping  by  double  entry 
and  after  the  Italian  method,  as  he  did  Lucy  Bertram,  I  could 
teach  you,  Tom." 

"  You  teach !  Yes,  I  dare  say.  That 's  always  the  tone  you 
take,"  said  Tom. 

"Dear  Tom,  I  was  only  joking,"  said  Maggie,  putting  her 
cheek  against  his  coat-sleeve. 

"But  it 's  always  the  same,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  with  the  little 
frown  he  put  on  when  he  was  about  to  be  justifiably  severe. 
"  You  're  always  setting  yourself  up  above  me  and  every  one  ! 
else,  and  I  've  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it  several  times.     You 
ought  not  to  have  spoken  as  you  did  to  my  uncles  and  aunts ' 
—  you  should  leave  it  to  me  to  take  care  of  my  mother  and ' 
you,  and  not   put  yourself   forward.      You  think  you  know 
better  than  any  one,  but  you  're  almost  always  wrong.     I  can 
judge  much  better  than  you  can."  I 

Poor  Tom  !  he  had  just  come  from  being  lectured  and  made 
to  feel  his  inferiority  :  the  reaction  of  his  strong,  self-assertinf 
nature  must  take  place  somehow ;  and  here  was  a  case  ii 
which  he  could  justly  show  himself  dominant.  Maggie's' 
cheek  flushed  and  her  lip  quivered  with  conflicting  resentmen 
and  affection,  and  a  certain  awe  as  well  as  admiration  of  Tom' 
firmer   and    more    effective   character.     She   did   not   answe 


THE   DOWNFALL.  251 

immediately;  very  angry  words  rose  to  her  lips,  but  they  were 
driven  back  again,  and  she  said  at  last  — 

"You  often  think  I  am  conceited,  Tom,  when  I  don't  mean 
what  I  say  at  all  in  that  way.  I  don't  mean  to  put  myself 
above  you  —  I  know  you  behaved  better  than  I  did  yesterciay. 
But  you  are  always  so  harsh  to  me,  Tom." 

With  the  last  words  the  resentment  was  rising  again. 

"  ]Sro,  I  'm  not  harsh,"  said  Tom,  with  severe  decision. 
"  I  'm  always  kind  to  you ;  and  so  I  shall  be  :  I  shall  always 
take  care  of  you.     But  you  must  mind  what  I  say." 

Their  mother  came  in  now,  and  Maggie  rushed  away,  that 
her  burst  of  tears,  which  she  felt  must  come,  might  not  hap- 
pen till  she  was  safe  up-stairs.  They  were  very  bitter  tears  : 
everybody  in  the  world  seemed  so  hard  and  unkind  to  Mi,ggie  : 
there  was  no  indulgence,  no  fondness,  such  as  she  imagined 
when  she  fashioned  the  world  afresh  in  her  own  thoughts. 
In  books  there  were  people  who  were  always  agreeable  or 
tender,  and  delighted  to  do  things  that  made  one  happy,  and 
who  did  not  show  their  kindness  by  finding  fault.  The  world 
outside  the  books  was  not  a  happy  one,  Maggie  felt :  it  seemed 
to  be  a  world  where  people  behaved  the  best  to  those  they  did 
not  pretend  to  love,  and  that  did  not  belong  to  them.  And  if 
life  had  no  love  in  it,  what  else  was  there  for  Maggie  ?  Noth- 
ing but  poverty  and  the  companionship  of  her  mother's  narrow 
griefs  —  perhaps  of  her  father's  heart-cutting  childish  depen- 
dence. There  is  no  hopelessness  so  sad  as  that  of  early  youth, 
when  the  soul  is  made  up  of  wants,  and  has  no  long  memories, 
no  superadded  life  in  the  life  of  otliers ;  though  we  who  look 
on  think  lightly  of  such  premature  despair,  as  if  our  vision  of 
the  future  lightened  the  blind  sufferer's  present. 

Maggie  in  her  brown  frock,  with  her  eyes  reddened  and  her 
heavy  hair  pushed  back,  looking  from  the  bed  where  her 
father  lay,  to  the  dull  walls  of  this  sad  chamber  which  was 
the  oentre  of  her  world,  was  a  creature  full  of  eager,  passionate 
longings  for  all  that  was  beautiful  and  glad  ;  thirsty  for  all 
knowledge ;  with  an  ear  straining  after  dreamy  music  that 
died  away  and  would  not  come  near  to  her ;  with  a  blind,  un- 
conscious yearning  for  something  that  would  link  together  the 


252  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

wonderful  impressions  of  this  mysterious  life,  and  give  her 
soul  a  sense  of  home  in  it. 

No  wonder,  when  there  is  this  contrast  between  the  outward 
and  the  inward,  that  painful  collisions  come  of  it. 


CHAPTER   VL 

TENDING    TO    REFUTE    THE    POPULAR    PREJUDICE    AGAINST    THE 
PRESENT    OF   A   POCKET-KNIFE, 

In  that  dark  time  of  December,  the  sale  of  the  household 
turniture  lasted  beyond  the  middle  of  the  second  day.  Mr. 
Tulliver,  who  had  begun,  in  his  intervals  of  consciousness,  to 
manifest  an  irritability  which  often  appeared  to  have  as  a 
direct  effect  the  recurrence  of  spasmodic  rigidity  and  insensi- 
bility, had  lain  in  this  living  death  throughout  the  critical 
hours  when  the  noise  of  the  sale  came  nearest  to  his  chamber. 
Mr.  Turubull  had  decided  that  it  would  be  a  less  risk  to  let 
him  remain  where  he  was,  than  to  move  him  to  Luke's  cottage 
—  a  plan  which  the  good  Luke  had  proposed  to  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
thinking  it  would  be  very  bad  if  the  master  were  "  to  waken 
up"  at  the  noise  of  the  sale;  and  the  wife  and  children  had 
sat  imprisoned  in  the  silent  chamber,  watching  the  large  pros- 
trate figure  on  the  bed,  and  trembling  lest  the  blank  face 
should  suddenly  show  some  response  to  the  sounds  which  fell 
on  their  own  ears  with  such  obstinate,  painful  repetition. 

But  it  was  over  at  last  —  that  time  of  importunate  certainty 
and  eye-straining  suspense.  The  sharp  sound  of  a  voice, 
almost  as  metallic  as  the  rap  that  followed  it,  had  ceased ;  the 
tramping  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel  had  died  out.  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver's  blond  face  seemed  aged  ten  years  by  the  last  thirty  hours : 
the  poor  woman's  mind  had  been  busy  divining  when  her 
favorite  things  were  being  knocked  down  by  the  terrible  ham- 
mer ;  her  heart  had  been  fluttering  at  the  thought  that  first 
one  thing  and  then  another  had  gone  to  be  identified  as  hers  in 
the  hateful  publicity  of  the  Golden  Lion  ;  and  all  the  while 


THE   DOWNFALL.  253 

she  had  to  sit  and  make  no  sign  of  this  inward  agitation. 
Such  things  bring  lines  in  well-rounded  faces,  and  broaden  the 
streaks  of  white  among  the  hairs  that  once  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  dipped  in  pure  sunshine.  Already,  at  three  o'clock, 
Kezia,  the  good-hearted,  bad-tempered  housemaid,  who  re- 
garded all  people  that  came  to  the  sale  as  her  personal  ene- 
mies, the  dirt  on  whose  feet  was  of  a  peculiarly  vile  quality, 
had  begun  to  scrub  and  swill  with  an  energy  much  assisted  by 
a  continual  low  muttering  against  "  folks  as  came  to  buy  up 
other  folks's  things,"  and  made  light  of  "  scrazing  "  the  tops  of 
mahogany  tables  over  which  better  folks  than  themselves  had 
had  to  —  suffer  a  waste  of  tissue  through  evaporation.  She 
was  not  scrubbing  indiscriminately,  for  there  would  be  further 
dirt  of  the  same  atrocious  kind  made  by  people  who  had  still 
to  fetch  away  their  purchases :  but  she  was  bent  on  bringing 
the  parlor,  where  that  "  pipe-smoking  pig  "  the  bailiff  had  sat, 
to  such  an  appearance  of  scant  comfort  as  could  be  given  to  it 
by  cleanliness,  and  the  few  articles  of  furniture  bought  in  for 
the  family.  Her  mistress  and  the  young  folks  should  have 
their  tea  in  it  that  night,  Kezia  was  determined. 

It  was  between  five  and  six  o'clock,  near  the  usual  tea-time, 
when  she  came  up-stairs  and  said  that  Master  Tom  was 
wanted.  The  person  who  wanted  him  was  in  the  kitchen,  and 
in  the  first  moments,  by  the  imperfect  fire  and  candle  light, 
Tom  had  not  even  an  indefinite  sense  of  any  acquaintance  with 
the  rather  broad-set  but  active  figure,  perhaps  two  years  older 
than  himself,  that  looked  at  him  with  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  set 
in  a  disc  of  freckles,  and  pulled  some  curly  red  locks  with  a 
strong  intention  of  respect.  A  low-crowned  oilskin-covered 
hat,  and  a  certain  shiny  deposit  of  dirt  on  the  rest  of  the  cos- 
tume, as  of  tablets  prepared  for  writing  upon,  suggested  a  call- 
ing that  had  to  do  with  boats ;  but  this  did  not  help  Tom's 
memory. 

^'Sarvant,  Mister  Tom,"  said  he  of  the  red  locks,  with  a 
smile  which  seemed  to  break  through  a  self-imposed  air  of 
melancholy.  "  You  don't  know  me  again,  I  doubt,"  he  went 
on,  as  Tom  continued  to  look  at  him  inquiringly  ;  "  but  I  'd 
like  to  talk  to  you  by  yourself  a  bit,  please." 


254  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  There  's  a  fire  i'  the  parlor,  Master  Tom,"  said  Kezia,  who 
objected  to  leaving  the  kitchen  in  the  crisis  of  toasting. 

"Come  this  way,  then,"  said  Tom,  wondering  if  this  young 
fellow  belonged  to  Guest  &  Co.'s  Wharf,  for  his  imagination 
ran  continually  towards  that  particular  spot,  and  uncle  Deane 
might  any  time  be  sending  for  him  to  say  that  there  was  a 
situation  at  liberty. 

The  bright  fire  in  the  parlor  was  the  only  light  that  showed 
the  few  chairs,  the  bureau,  the  carpetless  floor,  and  the  one 
table  —  no,  not  the  one  table :  there  was  a  second  table,  in  a 
corner,  with  a  large  Bible  and  a  few  other  books  upon  it.  It 
was  this  new  strange  bareness  that  Tom  felt  first,  before  he 
thought  of  looking  again  at  the  face  which  was  also  lit  up  by 
the  fire,  and  which  stole  a  half-shy,  questioning  glance  at  him 
as  the  entirely  strange  voice  said  — 

"  Why  !  you  don't  remember  Bob,  then,  as  you  gen  the 
pocket-knife  to,  Mr.  Tom  ?  " 

The  rough-handled  pocket-knife  was  taken  out  in  the  same 
moment,  and  the  largest  blade  opened  by  way  of  irresistible 
demonstration, 

"  What !  Bob  Jakin  ?  "  said  Tom  —  not  with  any  cordial 
delight,  for  he  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  that  early  intimacy 
symbolized  by  the  pocket-knife,  and  was  not  at  all  sure  that 
Bob's  motives  for  recalling  it  were  entirely  admirable. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Bob  Jakin  —  if  Jakin  it  must  be,  'cause  there  's 
so  many  Bobs  as  you  went  arter  the  squerrils  with,  that  day 
as  I  plumped  right  down  from  the  bough,  and  bruised  my 
shins  a  good  un  —  but  I  got  the  squerril  tight  for  all  that,  an' 
a  scratter  it  was.  An'  this  littlish  blade  's  broke,  you  see,  but 
I  would  n't  hev  a  new  un  put  in,  'cause  they  might  be  cheatin' 
me  an'  givin'  me  another  knife  istid,  for  there  is  n't  such  a 
blade  i'  the  country  —  it 's  got  used  to  my  hand,  like.  An' 
there  was  niver  nobody  else  gen  me  nothin'  but  what  I  got  by 
my  own  sharpness,  only  you,  Mr.  Tom  ;  if  it  was  n't  Bill  Fawks 
as  gen  me  the  terrier  pup  istid  o'  drowndin'  it,  an'  I  had  to  jaw 
him  a  good  un  afore  he  'd  give  it  me." 

Bob  spoke  with  a  sharp  and  rather  treble  volubility,  and  got 
through  his  long  speech  with  surprising  despatch,  giving  the 


THE  DOWNFALL.  2.35 

blade  of  his  knife  an  affectionate  rub  on  his  sleeve  when  he 
had  finished. 

"  Well,  Bob,"  said  Tom,  with  a  slight  air  of  patronage,  the 
foregoing  reminiscences  having  disposed  him  to  be  as  friendly 
as  was  becoming,  though  there  was  no  part  of  his  acquaintance 
with  Bob  that  he  remembered  better  than  the  cause  of  their 
parting  quarrel ;  "  is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  Mr.  Tom,"  answered  Bob,  shutting  up  his  knife 
with  a  click  and  returning  it  to  his  pocket,  where  he  seemed 
to  be  feeling  for  something  else.  "  I  should  n't  ha'  come  back 
upon  you  now  ye  're  i'  trouble,  an'  folks  say  as  the  master,  as 
I  used  to  frighten  the  birds  for,  an'  he  flogged  me  a  bit  for 
fun  when  he  catched  me  eatin'  the  turnip,  as  they  say  he  '11 
niver  lift  up  his  yead  no  more  —  I  shouldn't  ha'  come  now  to 
ax  you  to  gi'  me  another  knife,  'cause  you  gen  me  one  afore. 
If  a  chap  gives  me  one  black  eye,  that 's  enough  for  me  :  I 
shan't  ax  him  for  another  afore  I  sarve  him  out ;  an'  a  good 
turn 's  worth  as  much  as  a  bad  un,  anyhow.  I  shall  niver  grow 
down'ards  again,  Mr.  Tom,  an'  you  war  the  little  chap  as  I 
liked  the  best  when  /  war  a  little  chap,  for  all  you  leathered 
me,  and  would  n't  look  at  me  again.  There  's  Dick  Brumby, 
there,  I  could  leather  him  as  much  as  I  'd  a  mind ;  but  lors  ! 
you  get  tired  o'  leatherin'  a  chap  when  you  can  niver  make 
him  see  what  you  want  him  to  shy  at.  I  'n  seen  chaps  as  'ud 
stand  starin'  at  a  bough  till  their  eyes  shot  out,  afore  they  'd 
see  as  a  bird's  tail  war  n't  a  leaf.  It 's  poor  work  goin'  wi' 
such  raff  —  but  you  war  allays  a  rare  un  at  shying,  Mr.  Tom, 
an'  I  could  trusten  to  you  for  droppin'  down  wi'  your  stick  in 
the  nick  o'  time  at  a  runniu'  rat,  or  a  stoat,  or  that,  when  I 
war  a-beatin'  the  bushes." 

Bob  had  drawn  out  a  diriy  canvas  bag,  and  would  perhaps 
not  have  paused  just  then  if  Maggie  had  not  entered  the  room 
and  darted  a  look  of  surprise  and  curiosity  at  him,  whereupon 
he  pulled  his  red  locks  again  with  due  respect.  But  the  next 
moment  the  sense  of  the  altered  room  came  upon  Maggie  with 
a  force  that  overpowered  the  thought  of  Bob's  presence.  Her 
eyes  had  immediately  glanced  from  him  to  the  place  where 
the  bookcase  had  hung ;  there  was  nothing  now  but  the  oblong 


256  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

unfaded  space  ou  the  wall,  and  below  it  the  small  table  with 
the  Bible  and  the  few  other  books. 

"  Oh,  Tom,"  she  burst  out,  clasping  her  hands,  "where  are  the 
books  ?  I  thought  my  uncle  Glegg  said  he  would  buy  them  — 
did  n't  he  ?  —  are  those  all  they  've  left  us  ?  " 

*'  I  suppose  so,"  said  Tom,  with  a  sort  of  desperate  indiffer- 
ence. "  Why  should  they  buy  many  books  when  they  bought 
so  little  furniture  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears,  as 
she  rushed  up  to  the  table  to  see  what  books  had  been  rescued. 
"  Our  dear  old  Pilgrim's  Progress  that  you  colored  with  your 
little  paints  ;  and  that  picture  of  Pilgrim  with  a  mantle  on, 
looking  just  like  a  turtle  —  oh  dear  !  "  Maggie  went  on,  half 
sobbing  as  she  turned  over  the  few  books.  "I  thought  we 
should  never  part  with  that  while  we  lived  —  everything  is 
going  away  from  us  —  the  end  of  our  lives  will  have  nothing 
in  it  like  the  beginning !  " 

Maggie  turned  away  from  the  table  and  threw  herself  into 
a  chair,  with  the  big  tears  ready  to  roll  down  her  cheeks  — 
quite  blinded  to  the  presence  of  Bob,  who  was  looking  at  her 
with  the  pursuant  gaze  of  an  intelligent  dumb  animal,  with 
perceptions  more  perfect  than  his  comprehension. 

"Well,  Bob," said  Tom,  feeling  that  the  subject  of  the  books 
was  unseasonable,  "  I  suppose  you  just  came  to  see  me  because 
we  're  in  trouble  ?     That  was  very  good-natured  of  you." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  is.  Master  Tom,"  said  Bob,  beginning 
to  untwist  his  canvas  bag.  "  You  see,  I  'n  been  with  a  barge 
this  two  'ear  —  that 's  how  I  'n  been  gettin'  my  livin'  —  if  it 
was  n't  when  I  was  tentin'  the  furnace,  between  whiles,  at 
Torry's  mill.  But  a  fortni't  ago  I'd  a  rare  bit  o'  luck  —  I 
allays  thought  I  was  a  lucky  chap,  for  I  niver  set  a  trap  but 
what  I  catched  something ;  but  this  was  n't  a  trap,  it  was  a 
fire  i'  Torry's  mill,  an'  I  doused  it,  else  it  'ud  ha'  set  th'  oil 
alight,  an'  the  genelman  gen  me  ten  suvreigns  —  he  gen  me 
'em  himself  last  week.  An'  he  said  first,  I  was  a  sperrited 
chap  —  but  I  knowed  that  afore  —  but  then  he  outs  wi'  the 
ten  suvreigns,  an'  that  war  summat  new.  Here  they  are  — 
all  but  one  I "     Here  Bob  emptied  the  canvas  bag  on  the  table. 


THE    DOWNFALL.  257 

«  An'  -when  I  'd  got  'em,  my  head  was  all  of  a  boil  like  a  kettle 
o'  broth,  thinkin'  what  sort  o'  life  I  should  take  to  —  for  there 
■war  a  many  trades  I  "d  thought  on ,  for  as  for  the  barge,  1  'm 
clean  tired  out  wi't,  for  it  pulls  the  days  out  till  they  're  as 
long  as  pigs'  chitterlings.  An'  I  thought  first  I  'd  ha'  ferrets 
an'  dogs,  an'  be  a  rat-catcher ;  an'  then  I  thought  as  I  should 
like  a  bigger  way  o'  life,  as  I  did  n't  know  so  well ;  for  I  'n 
seen  to  the  bottom  o'  rat-catching ;  an'  I  thought,  an'  thought, 
till  at  last  I  settled  I'd  be  a  packman,  for  they're  knowin' 
fellers,  the  packmen  are  —  an'  I  'd  carry  the  lightest  things  I 
could  i'  my  pack  —  an'  there  'd  be  a  use  for  a  feller's  tongue, 
as  is  no  use  neither  wi'  rats  nor  barges.  An'  I  should  go  about 
the  country  far  an'  wide,  an'  come  round  the  women  wi'  my 
tongue,  an'  get  my  dinner  hot  at  the  public  —  lors  !  it  'ud  be 
a  lovely  life  !  " 

Bob  paused,  and  then  said,  with  defiant  decision,  as  if  reso- 
lutely turning  his  back  on  that  paradisaic  picture  — 

"  But  I  don't  mind  about  it  —  not  a  chip  !  An'  I  'n  changed 
one  o'  the  suvreigns  to  buy  my  mother  a  goose  for  dinner,  an' 
I  'n  bought  a  blue  plush  wescoat,  an'  a  sealskin  cap  —  for  if 
I  meant  to  be  a  packman,  I  'd  do  it  respectable.  But  I  don't 
mind  about  it  —  not  a  chip  !  My  yead  is  n't  a  turnip,  an'  I 
shall  p'r'aps  have  a  chance  o'  dousing  another  fire  afore  long. 
I  'm  a  lucky  chap.  So  I  '11  thank  you  to  take  the  nine  suv- 
reigns, Mr.  Tom,  and  set  yoursen  up  with  'em  somehow  —  if 
it 's  true  as  the  master  's  broke.  They  m.i  V  ^  "i"  go  fur  enough 
—  but  they  '11  help." 

Tom  was  touched  keenly  enough  to  forget  his  pride  and 
suspicion. 

"You're  a  very  kind  fellow,  Bob,"  he  said,  coloring,  with 
that  little  diffident  tremor  in  his  voice,  which  gave  a  certain 
charm  even  to  Tom's  pride  and  severity,  "and  I  shan't  forget 
you  again,  though  I  did  n't  know  you  this  evening.  But  I  can't 
take  the  nine  sovereigns :  I  should  be  taking  your  little  fortune 
from  you,  and  they  would  n't  do  me  much  good  either." 

"  Wouldn't  they,  Mr.  Tom  ?  "  said  Bob,  regretfully.     "Now 
don't  say  so  'cause'  you  think  I  want  'em.     I  are  n't  a  poor 
chap.     My  mother  gets  a  good  penn'orth  wi'  picking  feathers 
VOL,  II.  17 


258  THE  MILL   ON  THE   FLOSS. 

an'  things  ;  an'  if  she  eats  notliin'  but  bread-au'-water,  it  runs 
to  fat.  An'  I  'm  such  a  lucky  chap :  an'  I  doubt  you  are  n't 
quite  so  lucky,  Mr.  Tom  —  th'  old  master  is  n't,  anyhow  —  an' 
so  you  might  take  a  slice  o'  my  luck,  an'  no  harm  done.  Lors ! 
I  found  a  leg  o'  pork  i'  the  river  one  day  :  it  had  tumbled  out 
o'  one  o'  them  round-sterned  Dutchmen,  I  '11  be  bound.  Come, 
think  better  on  it,  Mr.  Tom,  for  old  'quinetance'  sake  —  else  I 
shall  think  you  bear  me  a  grudge." 

Bob  pushed  the  sovereigns  forward,  but  before  Tom  could 
speak,  Maggie,  clasping  her  hands,  and  looking  penitently  at 
Bob,  said  — 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry,  Bob  —  I  never  thought  you  were  so  good. 
Why,  I  think  you  're  the  kindest  person  in  the  world ! " 

Bob  had  not  been  aware  of  the  injurious  opinion  for  which 
Maggie  was  performing  an  inward  act  of  penitence,  but  he 
smiled  with  pleasure  at  this  handsome  eulogy  —  especially 
from  a  young  lass  who,  as  he  informed  his  mother  that  even- 
ing, had  "  such  uncommon  eyes,  they  looked  somehow  as  they 
made  him  feel  nohow." 

''  No,  indeed.  Bob,  I  can't  take  them,"  said  Tom ;  "  but 
don't  think  I  feel  your  kindness  less  because  I  say  no.  I 
don't  want  to  take  anything  from  anybody,  but  to  work  my 
own  way.  And  those  sovereigns  would  n't  help  me  much  — 
they  would  n't,  really,  —  if  I  were  to  take  them.  Let  me  shake 
hands  with  you  instead." 

Tom  put  out  his  pink  palm,  and  Bob  was  not  slow  to  place 
his  hard,  grimy  hand  within  it. 

"  Let  me  put  the  sovereigns  in  the  bag  again,"  said  Maggie  ; 
"and  you  '11  come  and  see  us  when  you  've  bought  your  pack, 
Bob." 

"  It 's  like  as  if  I  'd  come  out  o'  make-believe,  o'  purpose  to 
show  'em  you,"  said  Bob,  with  an  air  of  discontent,  as  Maggie 
gave  him  the  bag  again,  "  a-taking  'em  back  i'  this  way.  I  am 
a  bit  of  a  Do,  you  know ;  but  it  is  n't  that  sort  o'  Do  :  it 's 
on'y  when  a  feller 's  a  big  rogue,  or  a  big  flat,  I  like  to  let  him 
in  a  bit,  that 's  all." 

" Now,  don't  you  be  up  to  any  tricks.  Bob,"  said  Tom,  "else 
you  '11  get  transported  some  day." 


THE   DOWNFALL.  259 

"No,  no;  not  me,  Mr.  Tom,"  said  Bob,  with  an  air  of 
cheerful  confidence.  "  There 's  no  law  again'  flea-bites.  If  T 
was  n't  to  take  a  fool  in  now  and  then,  l)e  'd  niver  get  any 
wisero  But,  lors  !  hev  a  suvreign  to  buy  you  and  Miss  sum- 
mat,  on'y  for  a  token  —  just  to  match  my  pocket-knife." 

While  Bob  was  speaking  he  laid  down  the  sovereign,  and 
resolutely  twisted  up  his  bag  again.  Tom  pushed  back  thn 
gold,  and  said,  "No,  indeed.  Bob;  thank  you  heartily;  but  I 
can't  take  it."  And  Maggie,  taking  it  between  her  lingers, 
held  it  up  to  Bob,  and  said,  more  persuasively  — 

"Not  now  —  but  perhaps  another  time.  If  ever  Tom  or 
my  father  wants  help  that  you  can  give,  we  '11  let  you  know  — 
won't  we,  Tom  ?  That 's  what  you  would  like  —  to  have  us 
always  depend  on  you  as  a  friend  that  we  can  go  to  —  is  n't 
it.  Bob  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss,  and  thank  you,"  said  Bob,  reluctantly  taking 
the  money  ;  "  that 's  what  I  'd  like  —  anything  as  you  like. 
An'  I  wish  you  good-by,  INIiss,  and  good-luck,  Mr.  Tom,  and 
thank  you  for  shaking  hands  wi'  me,  though  you  would  n't  take 
the  money." 

Kezia's  entrance,  with  very  black  looks,  to  inquire  if  she 
should  n't  bring  in  the  tea  now,  or  whether  the  toast  was  to 
get  hardened  to  a  brick,  was  a  seasonable  check  on  Bob's  flux 
of  words,  and  hastened  his  parting  bow. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

HOW   A    HEN    TAKES    TO    STRATAGEM. 

The  days  passed,  and  Mr.  Tulliver  showed,  at  least  to  the 
eyes  of  the  medical  man,  stronger  and  stronger  symptoms  of 
a  gradual  return  to  his  normal  condition  :  the  paralytic  ol> 
struction  was,  little  by  little,  losing  its  tenacity,  and  the  mind 
was  rising  from  under  it  with  fitful  struggles,  like  a  living 
creature  making  its  way  from  under  a  great  snowdrift,  that 
slides  and  slides  again,  and  shuts  up  the  newly  made  opening. 


260  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Time  would  have  seemed  to  creep  to  the  watchers  by  the 
bed,  if  it  had  only  been  measured  by  the  doubtful  distant 
hope  which  kept  count  of  the  moments  within  the  chamber ; 
but  it  was  measured  for  them  by  a  fast-approaching  dread 
which  made  the  nights  come  too  quickly.  While  Mr.  Tulliver 
was  slowly  becoming  himself  again,  his  lot  was  hastening 
towards  its  moment  of  most  palpable  change.  The  taxing- 
masters  had  done  their  work  like  any  respectable  gunsmith 
conscientiously  preparing  the  musket,  that,  duly  pointed  by 
a  brave  arm,  will  spoil  a  life  or  two.  Allocaturs,  filing  of 
bills  in  Chancery,  decrees  of  sale,  are  legal  chain-shot  or  bomb- 
shells that  can  never  hit  a  solitary  mark,  but  must  fall  with 
widespread  shattering.  So  deeply  inherent  is  it  in  this  life 
of  ours  that  men  have  to  suffer  for  each  other's  sins,  so  in- 
evitably diffusive  is  human  suffering,  that  even  justice  makes 
its  victims,  and  we  can  conceive  no  retribution  that  does  not 
spread  beyond  its  mark  in  pulsations  of  unmerited  pain. 

By  the  beginning  of  the  second  week  in  January  the  bills 
were  out  advertising  the  sale,  under  a  decree  of  Chancery,  of 
Mr.  Tulliver's  farming  and  other  stock,  to  be  followed  by  a 
sale  of  the  mill  and  land,  held  in  the  proper  after-dinner  hour 
at  the  Golden  Lion.  The  miller  himself,  unaware  of  the  lapse 
of  time,  fancied  himself  still  in  that  first  stage  of  his  misfor- 
tunes when  expedients  might  be  thought  of  ;  and  often  in  his 
conscious  hours  talked  in  a  feeble,  disjointed  manner,  of  plans 
he  would  carry  out  when  he  "  got  well."  The  wife  and  chil- 
dren were  not  without  hope  of  an  issue  that  would  at  least 
save  Mr.  Tulliver  from  leaving  the  old  spot,  and  seeking  an 
entirely  strange  life.  For  uncle  Deane  had  been  induced  to 
interest  himself  in  this  stage  of  the  business.  It  would  not, 
he  acknowledged,  be  a  bad  speculation  for  Guest  &  Co.  to  buy 
Dorlcote  Mill,  and  carry  on  the  business,  which  was  a  good 
one,  and  might  be  increased  by  the  addition  of  steam-power ; 
in  which  case  Tulliver  might  be  retained  as  manager.  Still 
Mr.  Deane  would  say  nothing  decided  about  the  matter  :  the 
fact  that  Wakem  held  the  mortgage  on  the  land  might  put  it 
into  his  head  to  bid  for  the  Avhole  estate,  and  further,  to  out- 
bid the  cautious  firm  of  Guest  &  Co.,  who  did  not  carry  on 


THE   DOWNFALL.  261 

business  on  sentimental  groundji.     Mr.  Deane  was  obliged  to 
tell  Mrs.  Tulliver  so:  lethin.,  to  that  cftect,  when  he  rode  over 
to  the  mill  to  inspect  the  boo!:s  r\  compan;-  with  Mrs.  Glegg : 
for  she  had  observed  that  '•' "f  Guest  &:■  Co.  would  only  think 
about  it,  Mr.  TuUivcr's  father  and  grandfather  haci  been  carry- 
ing on  Dorlcote  Mill  long  befoi-^  the  oil-mill  of  that  firm  had 
been  so  much  as  thought  ol '     Mr.  Dcane,  in  reply,  doubted 
whether  that  was  precisely  the  relation  between  the  two  mills 
which  would  determine  their  value  as  investments.     As  for 
uncle  Glegg,  the  thing  lay  quite  beyond  his  imagination ;  the 
good-natured  man  felt  sincere  pity  for  the  Tulliver  family, 
but  his  money  was  all  locked  up  in  excellent  mortgages,  and 
he  could  run  no  risk ;  that  would  be  unfair  to  his  own  rela- 
tives ;  but  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Tulliver  should  have 
some  new  flannel  waistcoats  which  he  had  himself  renounced 
in  favor  of  a  more  elastic  commodity,  and  that  he  would  buy 
Mrs.  Tulliver  a  pound  of  tea  now  and  then;  it  would  be  a 
journey  which   his  benevolence  delighted  in  beforehand,  to 
carry  the  tea,  and  see  her  pleasure  on  being  assured  it  was  the 
best  black. 

Still,  it  was  clear  that  Mr.  Deane  was  kindly  disposed 
towards  the  Tullivers.  One  day  he  had  brought  Lucy,  who 
was  come  home  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  the  little 
blond  angel-head  had  pressed  itself  against  Maggie's  darker 
cheek  with  many  kisses  and  some  tears.  These  fair  slim 
daughters  keep  up  a  tender  spot  in  the  heart  of  many  a  re- 
spectable partner  in  a  respectable  firm,  and  perhaps  Lucy's 
anxious  pitying  questions  about  her  poor  cousins  helped  to 
make  uncle  Deane  more  prompt  in  finding  Tom  a  temporary 
place  in  the  warehouse,  and  in  putting  him  in  the  way  of  get- 
ting evening  lessons  in  book-keeping  and  calculation. 

That  might  have  cheered  the  lad  and  fed  his  hopes  a  little, 
if  there  had  not  come  at  the  same  time  the  much-dreaded  blow 
of  finding  that  his  father  must  be  a  bankrupt,  after  all ;  at 
least,  the  creditors  must  be  asked  to  take  less  than  their  due, 
which  to  Tom's  untechnicai  mind  was  the  same  thing  as 
b.ankruptcy.  His  father  must  not  only  be  said  to  have  "  lost 
his  property,"  but  to  have  "failed" — the  word  that  carried 


262  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

the  worst  obloquy  to  Tom's  mind.  For  when  the  defendant's 
claim  for  costs  had  been  satisfied,  there  would  remain  the 
friendly  bill  of  Mr.  Gore,  and  the  deficiency  at  the  bank,  as 
well  as  the  other  debts,  which  would  make  the  assets  shrink 
into  unequivocal  disproportion  ;  "  not  more  than  ten  or  twelve 
shillings  in  the  pound,"  predicted  Mr.  Deane,  in  a  decided 
tone,  tightening  his  lips;  and  the  words  fell  on  Tom  like  a 
scalding  liquid,  leaving  a  continual  smart. 

He  was  sadly  in  want  of  something  to  keep  up  his  spirits 
a  little  in  the  unpleasant  newness  of  his  position  —  suddenly 
transported  from  the  easy  carpeted  ennui  of  study-hours  at 
Mr.  Stelling's,  and  the  busy  idleness  of  castle-building  in  a 
"  last  half "  at  school,  to  the  companionship  of  sacks  and 
hides,  and  bawling  men  thundering  down  heavy  weights  at 
his  elbow.  The  first  step  towards  getting  on  in  the  world  was 
a  chill,  dusty,  noisy  affair,  and  implied  going  without  one's  tea 
in  order  to  stay  in  St.  Ogg's  and  have  an  evening  lesson  from 
a  one-armed  elderly  clerk,  in  a  room  smelling  strongly  of  bad 
tobacco.  Tom's  young  pink-and-white  face  had  its  colors  very 
much  deadened  by  the  time  he  took  off  his  hat  at  home,  and 
sat  down  with  keen  hunger  to  his  supper.  No  wonder  he  was 
a  little  cross  if  his  mother  or  Maggie  spoke  to  him. 

But  all  this  while  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  brooding  over  a  scheme 
by  which  she,  and  no  one  else,  would  avert  the  result  most 
to  be  dreaded,  and  prevent  Wakem  from  entertaining  the 
purpose  of  bidding  for  the  mill.  Imagine  a  truly  respectable 
and  amiable  hen,  by  some  portentous  anomaly,  taking  to 
reflection  and  inventing  combinations  by  which  she  might 
prevail  on  Hodge  not  to  wring  her  neck,  or  send  her  and  her 
chicks  to  market :  the  result  could  hardly  be  other  than  much 
cackling  and  fluttering.  Mrs.  Tulliver,  seeing  that  everything 
had  gone  wrong,  had  begun  to  think  that  she  had  been  too 
passive  in  life ;  and  that,  if  she  had  applied  her  mind  to 
business,  and  taken  a  strong  resolution  now  and  then,  it  would 
have  been  all  the  better  for  her  and  her  family.  Nobody,  it 
appeared,  had  thought  of  going  to  speak  to  Wakem  on  this 
business  of  the  mill ;  and  yet,  Mrs.  Tulliver  reflected,  it  would 
have  been  quite  the  shortest  method  of  securing  the  right  end. 


THE   DOWNFALL.  263 

It  nroiiid  have  been  of  no  use,  to  be  sure,  for  Mr.  Tulliver  to 
go.  —  even  if  he  had  been  able  and  willing  —  for  he  had  been 
"  going  to  law  against  Wakem  "  and  abusing  him  for  the  last 
ten  years  ;  Wakem  was  always  likely  to  have  a  spite  against 
him.  And  now  that  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  her  husband  was  very  much  in  the  wrong  to  bring  her 
into  this  trouble,  she  was  inclined  to  think  that  his  opinion  of 
Wakem  was  wrong  too.  To  be  sure,  Wakem  had  "put  the 
bailies  in  the  house,  and  sold  them  up ;  "  but  she  supposed  he 
did  that  to  please  the  man  that  lent  Mr.  Tulliver  the  money, 
for  a  lawyer  had  more  folks  to  please  than  one,  and  he  was  n't 
likely  to  put  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  had  gone  to  law  with  him, 
above  everybody  else  in  the  world.  The  attorney  might  be  a 
very  reasonable  man  —  why  not  ?  He  had  married  a  Miss 
Clint,  and  at  the  time  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  heard  of  that  mar- 
riage, the  summer  when  she  wore  her  blue  satin  spencer,  and 
had  not  yet  any  thoughts  of  Mr.  Tulliver,  she  knew  no  harm 
of  Wakem.  And  certainly  towards  herself  —  whom  he  knew 
to  have  been  a  Miss  Dodson  —  it  was  out  of  all  possibility 
that  he  could  entertain  anything  but  goodwill,  when  it  was 
once  brought  home  to  his  observation  that  she,  for  her  part, 
had  never  wanted  to  go  to  law,  and  indeed  was  at  present  dis- 
posed to  take  Mr.  Wakem's  view  of  all  subjects  rather  than 
her  husband's.  In  fact,  if  that  attorney  saw  a  respectable 
matron  like  herself  disposed  ''  to  give  him  good  words,"  why 
should  n't  he  listen  to  her  representations  ?  For  she  would 
put  the  matter  clearly  before  him,  which  had  never  been  done 
yet.  And  he  would  never  go  and  bid  for  the  mill  on  purpose 
to  spite  her,  an  innocent  woman,  who  thought  it  likely  enough 
that  she  had  danced  with  him  in  their  youth  at  Squire  Dar- 
leigh's,  for  at  those  big  dances  she  had  often  and  often 
danced  with  young  men  whose  names  she  had  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  hid  these  reasonings  in  her  own  bosom ;  for 
when  she  had  thrown  out  a  hint  to  Mr.  Deane  and  Mr.  Glegg, 
that  she  wouldn't  mind  going  to  speak  to  Wakem  herself,  they 
had  said,  "  No,  no,  no,"  and  "  Pooh,  pooh,"  and  "  Let  Wakem 
alone,"  in  the  tone  of  men  who  were  not  likely  to  give  a  can- 
did attention  to  a  more  definite  exposition  of  her  project;  still 


264  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

less  dared  she  mention  the  plan  to  Tom  and  Maggie,  for  "  the 
childi-en  were  always  so  against  everything  their  mother  said ; " 
and  Tom,  she  observed,  was  almost  as  much  set  against  Wakem 
as  his  father  was.  But  this  unusual  concentration  of  thought 
naturally  gave  Mrs.  Tulliver  an  unusual  power  of  device  and 
determination ;  and  a  day  or  two  before  the  sale,  to  be  held  at 
the  Golden  Lion,  when  there  was  no  longer  any  time  to  be  lost, 
she  carried  out  her  plan  by  a  stratagem.  There  were  pickles 
in  question  —  a  large  stock  of  pickles  and  ketchup  which 
Mrs.  Tulliver  possessed,  and  which  Mr.  Hyndmarsh  the  grocer 
would  certainly  purchase  if  she  could  transact  the  business  in 
a  personal  interview,  so  she  would  walk  with  Tom  to  St.  Ogg's 
that  morning:  and  when  Tom  urged  that  she  might  let  the 
pickles  be,  at  present  —  he  didn't  like  her  to  go  about  just  yet 
—  she  appeared  so  hurt  at  this  conduct  in  her  son,  contradict- 
ing her  about  pickles  which  she  had  made  after  the  family  re- 
ceipts inherited  from  his  own  grandmother,  who  had  died  when 
his  mother  was  a  little  girl,  that  he  gave  way,  and  they  walked 
together  until  she  turned  towards  Danish  Street,  where  Mr. 
Hyndmarsh  retailed  his  grocery,  not  far  from  the  offices  of 
Mr.  Wakem. 

That  gentleman  was  not  yet  come  to  his  office :  would  Mrs. 
Tulliver  sit  down  by  the  fire  in  his  private  room  and  wait  for 
him  ?  She  had  not  long  to  wait  before  the  punctual  attorney 
entered,  knitting  his  brow  with  an  examining  glance  at  the  stout 
blond  woman  who  rose,  curtsying  deferentially  :  —  a  tallish 
man,  with  an  aquiline  nose  and  abundant  iron-gray  hair.  You 
have  never  seen  Mr.  Wakem  before,  and  are  possibly  wonder- 
ing whether  he  was  really  as  eminent  a  rascal,  and  as  crafty, 
bitter  an  enemy  of  honest  humanity  in  general,  and  of  Mr. 
Tulliver  in  particular,  as  he  is  represented  to  be  in  that  eidolon 
or  portrait  of  him  which  we  have  seen  to  exist  in  the  miller's 
mind. 

It  is  clear  that  the  irascible  miller  was  a  man  to  interpret 
any  chance-shot  that  grazed  him  as  an  attempt  on  his  own 
life,  and  was  liable  to  entanglements  in  this  puzzling  world, 
which,  due  consideration  had  to  his  own  infallibility,  required 
the  hypothesis  of  a  very  active  diabolical  agency  to  explain 


THE   DOWNFALL.  265 

them.  It  is  still  possible  to  believe  that  the  attorney  was  not 
more  guilty  towards  him,  than  an  ingenious  machine,  which 
performs  its  work  with  much  regularity,  is  guilty  towards  the 
rash  man  who,  venturing  too  near  it,  is  caught  up  by  some 
fly-wheel  or  other,  and  suddenly  converted  into  unexpected 
mince-meat. 

But   it   is   really  impossible  to  decide   this  question   by  a 
glance   at   his   person :   the   lines   and  lights  of  the   human 
countenance   are   like   other   symbols  —  not   always   easy   to 
read  without  a  key.     On  an  a  priori  view  of  Wakem's  aqui- 
line nose,  which  offended  Mr.  Tulliver,  there  was  not  more 
rascality  than  in  the  shape  of  his  stiff  shirt-collar,  though  this 
too,  along  with   his  nose,  might  have    become  fraught  with 
damnatory  meaning  when  once  the  rascality  was  ascertained. 
"  Mrs.  Tulliver,  I  think  ?  "  said  Mr.  Wakem. 
"Yes,  sir.     Miss  Elizabeth  Dodson  as  was." 
"  Pray  be  seated.     You  have  some  business  with  me  ?  " 
"  Well,  sir,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  beginning  to  feel  alarmed 
at  her  own  courage,  now  she  was  really  in  presence  of  the 
formidable  man,  and  reflecting  that  she  had  not  settled  with 
herself  how  she  should  begin.     Mr.  Wakem  felt  in  his  waist- 
coat-pockets, and  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  she  began  at  last  —  "I  hope,  sir,  you  're  not 
a-thinking  as  /  bear  you  any  ill-will  because  o'  my  husband's 
losing  his  lawsuit,  and  the  bailies  being  put  in,  and  the  linen 
being  sold  —  oh  dear !  .  .  .  for  I  was  n't  brought  up  in  that 
way.  I  'm  sure  you  remember  my  father,  sir,  for  he  was  close 
friends  with  Squire  Darleigh,  and  we  allays  went  to  the  dances 
there  —  the  Miss  Dodsons  —  nobody  could  be  more  looked  on 
—  and  justly,  for  there  was  four  of  us,  and  you're  quite  aware 
as  Mrs.  Glegg  and  Mrs.  Deane  are  my  sisters.  And  as  for 
going  to  law  and  losing  money,  and  having  sales  before  you  're 
dead,  I  never  saw  anything  o'  that  before  I  was  married,  nor  for 
a  long  while  after.  And  I  'm  not  to  be  answerable  for  my  bad 
luck  i'  marrying  out  o'  my  own  family  into  one  where  the 
goings-on  was  diiferent.  And  as  for  being  drawn  in  t'  abuse 
you  as  other  folks  abuse  you,  sir,  that  I  niver  was,  and  nobody 
can  say  it  of  me." 


2^6  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  shook  lier  head  a  little,  and  looked  at  the  hem 
of  her  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  I  've  no  doubt  of  what  you  say,  Mrs.  Tulliver,"  said  Mr. 
Wakem,  with  cold  politeness.  "  But  you  have  some  question 
to  ask  me  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,  yes.  But  that 's  what  I  've  said  to  myself  —  I  've 
said  you  'd  had  some  nat'ral  feeling ;  and  as  for  my  husband, 
as  has  n't  been  himself  for  this  two  months,  I  'm  not  a-defend- 
ing  him,  in  no  way,  for  being  so  hot  about  th'  erigation  —  not 
but  what  there  's  worse  men,  for  he  never  wronged  nobody  of 
a  shilling  nor  a  penny,  not  willingly  —  and  as  for  his  fieriness 
and  lawing,  what  could  I  do  ?  And  him  struck  as  if  it  was 
with  death  when  he  got  the  letter  as  said  you  'd  the  hold  upo' 
the  land.  But  I  can't  believe  but  Vv^hat  you  '11  behave  as  a 
gentleman." 

"What  does  all  this  mean,  Mrs.  Tulliver  ?  "  said  Mr.  Wakem, 
rather  sharply.     "  What  do  you  want  to  ask  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  if  you  '11  be  so  good,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  start- 
ing a  little,  and  speaking  more  hurriedly,  "  if  you  '11  be  so 
good  not  to  buy  the  mill  an'  the  land  —  the  land  would  n't 
so  much  matter,  only  my  husband  'ull  be  like  mad  at  your 
having  it." 

Something  like  a  new  thought  flashed  across  Mr.  Wakem's 
face  as  he  said,  "  Who  told  you  I  meant  to  buy  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  it 's  none  o'  my  inventing,  and  I  should  never 
ha'  thought  of  it ;  for  my  husband,  as  ought  to  know  about  the 
law,  he  allays  used  to  say  as  lawyers  had  never  no  call  to  biiy 
anything  —  either  lands  or  houses  —  for  they  allays  got  'em 
into  their  hands  other  ways.  An'  I  should  think  that  'ud  be 
the  way  with  you,  sir ;  and  I  niver  said  as  you  'd  be  the  man  to 
do  contrairy  to  that." 

"  Ah,  well,  who  was  it  that  did  say  so  ?  "  said  Wakem,  open- 
ing his  desk,  and  moving  things  about,  with  the  accompani- 
ment of  an  almost  inaudible  whistle. 

"  Why,  sir,  it  was  IVIr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane,  as  have  all  the 
management :  and  Mr.  Deane  thinks  as  Guest  &  Co.  'ud  buy  the 
mill  and  let  Mr.  Tulliver  work  it  for  'em,  if  you  did  n't  bid  for 
it  and  raise  the  price.     And  it  'ud  be  such  a  thing  for  my  hus- 


THE   DOWNFALL.  267 

band  to  stay  where  he  is,  if  he  could  get  his  living :  for  it  was 
his  father's  before  him,  the  mill  was,  and  his  grandfather  built 
it,  though  I  was  n't  fond  o'  the  noise  of  it,  when  first  I  was 
married,  for  there  was  no  mills  in  our  family  —  not  the  Dod- 
sons'  —  and  if  I  'd  known  as  the  mills  had  so  much  to  do  with 
the  law,  it  would  n't  have  been  me  as  'ud  have  been  the  first 
Dodson  to  marry  one ;  but  I  went  into  it  blindfold,  that  I  did, 
erigation  and  everything." 

"  What !  Guest  &  Co.  would  keep  the  mill  in  their  own 
hands,  I  suppose,  and  j^ay  your  husband  wages  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  sir,  it 's  hard  to  think  of,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
a  little  tear  making  its  way,  "as  my  husband  should  take 
wage.  But  it  'ud  look  more  like  what  used  to  be,  to  stay  at 
the  mill  than  to  go  anywhere  else  :  and  if  you  '11  only  think  — 
if  you  was  to  bid  for  the  mill  and  buy  it,  my  husband  might  be 
struck  worse  than  he  was  before,  and  niver  get  better  again  as 
he 's  getting  now." 

"  Well,  but  if  I  bought  the  mill,  and  allowed  your  husband 
to  act  as  my  manager  in  the  same  way,  how  then  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Wakem. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  doubt  he  could  niver  be  got  to  do  it,  not  if  the 
very  mill  stood  still  to  beg  and  pray  of  him.  For  your  name 's 
like  poison  to  him,  it 's  so  as  never  was  ;  and  he  looks  upon  it 
as  you  've  been  the  ruin  of  him  all  along,  ever  since  you  set  the 
law  on  him  about  the  road  through  the  meadow  —  that 's  eight 
year  ago,  and  he's  been  going  on  ever  since  —  as  I've  allays 
told  him  he  was  wrong  —  " 

''  He 's  a  pig-headed,  foul-mouthed  fool ! "  burst  out  Mr. 
Wakem,  forgetting  himself. 

"  Oh  dear,  sir ! "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  frightened  at  a  result  so 
different  from  the  one  she  had  fixed  her  mind  on ;  "1  would  n't 
wish  to  contradict  you,  but  it 's  like  enough  he 's  changed  his 
mind  with  this  illness  —  he 's  forgot  a  many  things  he  used  to 
talk  about.  And  you  would  n't  like  to  have  a  corpse  on  your 
mind,  if  he  was  to  die ;  and  they  do  say  as  it 's  allays  unlucky 
when  Dorlcote  Mill  changes  hands,  and  the  water  might  all 
run  away,  and  tJien  .  .  .  not  as  I  'm  wishing  you  any  ill-luck, 
sir,  for  I  forgot  to  tell  you  as  I  remember  your  wedding  as  if 


268  THE   MILL    ON    THE    FLOSS. 

it  was  yesterday  —  Mrs.  Wakem  was  a  Miss  Clint,  I  know  that 
—  and  my  boy,  as  there  is  n't  a  nicer,  handsomer,  straighter 
boy  nowhere,  went  to  school  with  your  son  —  " 

Mr.  Wakem  rose,  opened  the  door,  and  called  to  one  of  his 
clerks. 

"  You  must  excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  Mrs.  Tulliver  ; 
I  have  business  that  must  be  attended  to ;  and  I  think  there  is 
nothing  more  necessary  to  be  said." 

"  But  if  you  would  bear  it  in  mind,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
rising,  "  and  not  run  against  me  and  my  children ;  and  I  'm  not 
denying  Mr.  Tulliver 's  been  in  the  wrong,  but  he  's  been  pun- 
ished enough,  and  there  's  worse  men,  for  it 's  been  giving  to 
other  folks  has  been  his  fault.  He 's  done  nobody  any  harm 
but  himself  and  his  family  —  the  more 's  the  pity  —  and  I  go 
and  look  at  the  bare  shelves  every  day,  and  think  where  all  my 
things  used  to  stand." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  '11  bear  it  in  mind,"  said  Mr.  Wakem,  hastily, 
looking  towards  the  open  door. 

"  And  if  you  'd  please  not  to  say  as  I  've  been  to  speak  to 
you,  for  my  son  'ud  be  very  angry  with  me  for  demeaning 
myself,  I  know  he  would,  and  I  've  trouble  enough  without 
being  scolded  by  my  children." 

Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver's  voice  trembled  a  little,  and  she  could 
make  no  answer  to  the  attorney's  "  good  morning,"  but  curtsied 
and  walked  out  in  silence. 

"  Which  dav  is  it  that  Dorlcote  Mill  is  to  be  sold  ?  Where 's 
the  bill  ? "  said  Mr.  Wakem  to  his  clerk  when  they  were 
alone. 

-'  Next  Friday  is  the  day :  Friday  at  six  o'clock." 

"  Oh,  just  run  to  Winship's  the  auctioneer,  and  see  if  he 's  at 
home.     I  have  some  business  for  him  :  ask  him  to  come  up." 

Although,  when  Mr.  Wakem  entered  hi?  office  that  morning, 
he  had  had  no  intention  of  purchasing  Dorlcote  Mill,  his  mind 
was  already  made  up  :  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  suggested  to  him  sev- 
eral determining  motives,  and  his  mental  glance  was  very  rapid  : 
he  was  one  of  those  men  who  can  be  prompt  without  being 
rash,  because  their  motives  run  in  fixed  tracks,  and  they  have 
no  need  to  reconcile  conflicting  aims. 


THE   DOWNFALL.  269 

To  suppose  that  Wakem  had  the  same  sort  of  inveterate 
hatred  towards  Tulliver,  that  Tulliver  had  towards  him,  would 
be  like  supposing  that  a  pike  and  a  roach  can  look  at  each  other 
from  a  similar  point  of  view.  The  roach  necessarily  abhors  the 
mode  in  which  the  pike  gets  his  living,  and  the  pike  is  likely  to 
think  nothing  further  even  of  the  most  indignant  roach  than 
that  he  is  excellent  good  eating;  it  could  only  be  when  the 
roach  choked  him  that  the  pike  could  entertain  a  strong  per- 
sonal animosity.  If  Mr.  Tulliver  had  ever  seriously  injured 
or  thwarted  the  attorney,  Wakem  would  not  have  refused  him 
the  distinction  of  being  a  special  object  of  his  vindictiveness. 
But  when  Mr.  Tulliver  called  Wakem  a  rascal  at  the  market 
dinner-table,  the  attorney's  clients  were  not  a  whit  inclined  to 
withdraw  their  business  from  him ;  and  if,  when  Wakem  him 
self  happened  to  be  present,  some  jocose  cattle-feeder,  stimulated 
by  opportunity  and  brandy,  made  a  thrust  at  him  by  alluding 
to  old  ladies'  wills,  he  maintained  perfect  sang  f mid,  and  knew 
quite  well  that  the  majority  of  substantial  men  then  present 
were  perfectly  contented  with  the  fact  that  "Wakem  was 
Wakem  ;  "  that  is  to  say,  a  man  who  always  knew  the  stepping- 
stones  that  would  carry  him  through  very  muddy  bits  of  prac- 
tice. A  man  who  had  made  a  large  fortune,  had  a  handsome 
house  among  the  trees  at  Tofton,  and  decidedly  the  finest 
stock  of  port-wine  in  the  neighborhood  of  St,  Ogg's,  was  likely 
to  feel  himself  on  a  level  with  public  opinion.  And  I  am  not 
sure  that  even  honest  Mr.  Tulliver  himself,  with  his  general 
view  of  law  as  a  cockpit,  might  not,  under  opposite  circum- 
stances, have  seen  a  fine  appropriateness  in  the  truth  that 
"  Wakem  was  Wakem ; "  since  I  have  understood  from  per- 
sons versed  in  history,  that  mankind  is  not  disposed  to  look 
narrowly  into  the  conduct  of  great  victors  when  their  victory 
is  on  the  right  side.  Tulliver,  then,  could  be  no  obstruction  to 
Wakem ;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  a  poor  devil  whom  the  law- 
yer had  defeated  several  times  —  a  hot-tempered  fellow,  who 
would  always  give  you  a  handle  against  him.  Wakem's  con- 
science was  not  uneasy  because  he  had  used  a  few  tricks  against 
the  miller :  why  should  he  hate  that  unsuccessful  plaintiff  — 
that  pitiable,  furious  bull  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  a  net  ? 


270  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Still,  among  the  various  excesses  to  which  human  nature  is 
subject,  moralists  have  never  numbered  that  of  being  too  fond 
of  the  people  who  openly  revile  us.  The  successful  Yellow 
candidate  for  the  borough  of  Old  Topping,  perhaps,  feels  no 
pursuant  meditative  hatred  toward  the  Blue  editor  who  con- 
soles his  subscribers  with  vituperative  rhetoric  against  Yellow 
men  who  sell  their  country,  and  are  the  demons  of  private 
life ;  but  he  might  not  be  sorry,  if  law  and  opportunity  favored, 
to  kick  that  Blue  editor  to  a  deeper  shade  of  his  favorite  color. 
Prosperous  men  take  a  little  vengeance  now  and  then,  as  they 
take  a  diversion,  when  it  comes  easily  in  their  way,  and  is  no 
hindrance  to  business  ;  and  such  small  unimpassioned  revenges 
have  an  enormous  effect  in  life,  running  through  all  degrees 
of  pleasant  infliction,  blocking  the  fit  men  out  of  places,  and 
blackening  characters  in  unpremeditated  talk.  Still  more,  to 
see  people  who  have  been  only  insignificantly  offensive  to  us, 
reduced  in  life  and  humilitated  without  any  special  efforts  of 
ours,  is  apt  to  have  a  soothing,  flattering  influence  :  Provi- 
dence, or  some  other  prince  of  this  world,  it  appears,  has  un- 
dertaken the  task  of  retribution  for  us ;  and  really,  by  an 
agreeable  constitution  of  things,  our  enemies  somehow  donH 
prosper. 

Wakem  was  not  without  this  parenthetic  vindictiveness  to- 
wards the  uncomplimentary  miller ;  and  now  Mrs,  Tulliver 
had  put  the  notion  into  his  head,  it  presented  itself  to  him  as 
a  pleasure  to  do  the  very  thing  that  would  cause  Mr.  Tulliver 
the  most  deadly  mortification,  —  and  a  pleasure  of  a  complex 
kind,  not  made  up  of  crude  malice,  but  mingling  with  it  the 
relish  of  self-approbation.  To  see  an  enemy  humiliated  gives 
a  certain  contentment,  but  this  is  jejune  compared  with  the 
highly  blent  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  humiliated  by  your 
benevolent  action  or  concession  on  his  behalf.  That  is  a  sort 
of  revenge  which  falls  into  the  scale  of  virtue,  and  Wakem 
was  not  without  an  intention  of  keeping  that  scale  respectably 
filled.  He  had  once  had  the  pleasure  of  putting  an  old  enemy 
of  his  into  one  of  the  St.  Ogg's  almshouses,  to  the  rebuilding 
of  which  he  had  given  a  large  subscription ;  and  here  was  an 
opportunity  of  providing  for  another  by  making  him  his  own 


THE  DOWNFALL.  271 

servant.  Such  things  give  a  completeness  to  prosperity,  and 
contribute  elements  of  agreeable  consciousness  that  are  not 
dreamed  of  by  that  short-sighted,  over-heated  vindictiveness, 
which  goes  out  of  its  way  to  wreak  itself  in  direct  injury.  And 
Tulliver,  with  his  rough  tongue  filed  by  a  sense  of  obligation, 
would  make  a  better  servant  than  any  chance-fellow  who  was 
cap-in-hand  for  a  situation.  Tulliver  was  known  to  be  a  man 
of  proud  honesty,  and  Wakem  was  too  acute  not  to  believe  in 
the  existence  of  honesty.  He  was  given  to  observing  individ- 
uals, not  to  judging  of  them  according  to  maxims,  and  no  one 
knew  better  than  he  that  all  men  were  not  like  himself.  Be- 
sides, he  intended  to  overlook  the  whole  business  of  land  and 
mill  pretty  closely :  he  was  fond  of  these  practical  rural  matters. 
But  there  were  good  reasons  for  purchasing  Dorlcote  Mill,  quite 
apart  from  any  benevolent  vengeance  on  the  miller.  It  was 
really  a  capital  investment ;  besides,  Guest  &  Co.  were  going 
to  bid  for  it.  Mr.  Guest  and  Mr.  Wakem  were  on  friendly 
dining  terms,  and  the  attorney  liked  to  predominate  over  a 
ship-owner  and  mill-owner  who  was  a  little  too  loud  in  the 
town  affairs  as  well  as  in  his  table-talk.  For  Wakem  was  not 
a  mere  man  of  business  :  he  was  considered  a  pleasant  fellow 
in  the  upper  circles  of  St.  Ogg's  —  chatted  amusingly  over  his 
port-wine,  did  a  little  amateur  farming,  and  had  certainly  been 
an  excellent  husband  and  father :  at  church,  when  he  went 
there,  he  sat  under  the  handsomest  of  mural  monuments 
erected  to  the  memory  of  his  wife.  Most  men  would  have 
married  again  under  his  circumstances,  but  he  was  said  to  be 
more  tender  to  his  deformed  son  than  most  men  were  to  their 
best-shapen  offspring.  Not  that  ]Mr.  Wakem  had  not  other 
sons  besides  Philip ;  but  towards  them  he  held  only  a  chiaros- 
curo parentage,  and  provided  for  them  in  a  grade  of  life  duly 
beneath  his  own.  In  this  fact,  indeed,  there  lay  the  clenching 
motive  to  the  purchase  of  Dorlcote  Mill.  While  ]Mrs.  Tulliver 
was  talking,  it  had  occurred  to  the  rapid-m.inded  lawyer,  among 
all  the  other  circumstances  of  the  case,  that  this  purchase 
would,  in  a  few  years  to  come,  furnish  a  highly  suitable  posi- 
tion for  a  certain  favorite  lad  whom  he  meant  to  bring  on  in 
the  world. 


272  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

These  were  the  mental  conditions  on  which  Mrs.  Tulliver 
had  undertaken  to  act  persuasively,  and  had  failed:  a  fact 
which  may  receive  some  illustration  from  the  remark  of  a 
great  philosopher,  that  fly-iishers  fail  in  preparing  their  bait 
60  as  to  make  it  alluring  iu  the  right  quarter,  for  want  of  a 
due  acquaintance  with  the  subjectivity  of  iishes. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

DAYLIGHT    ON    THE    WRECK. 

It  was  a  clear  frosty  January  day  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver 
first  came  down-stairs :  the  bright  sun  on  the  chestnut  boughs 
and  the  roofs  opposite  his  window  had  made  him  impatiently 
declare  that  he  would  be  caged  up  no  longer:  he  thought 
everywhere  would  be  more  cheery  under  this  sunshine  than 
his  bedroom;  for  he  knew  nothing  of  the  bareness  below, 
which  made  the  flood  of  sunshine  importunate,  as  if  it  had  an 
unfeeling  pleasure  in  showing  the  empty  places,  and  the  marks 
where  well-known  objects  once  had  been.  The  impression  on 
his  mind  that  it  was  but  yesterday  when  he  received  the  letter 
from  Mr.  Gore  was  so  continually  implied  in  his  talk,  and  the 
attempts  to  convey  to  him  the  idea  that  many  weeks  had 
passed  and  much  had  happened  since  then,  had  been  so  soon 
swept  away  by  recurrent  forgetfulness,  that  even  Mr.  Turnbull 
had  begun  to  despair  of  preparing  him  to  meet  the  facts  by 
previous  knowledge.  The  full  sense  of  the  present  could  only 
be  imparted  gradually  by  new  experience  —  not  by  mere 
words,  which  must  remain  weaker  than  the  impressions  left 
by  the  old  experience.  This  resolution  to  come  down-stairs 
was  heard  with  trembling  by  the  wife  and  children.  Mrs. 
Tulliver  said  Tom  must  not  go  to  St.  Ogg's  at  the  usual  hour 
—  he  must  wait  and  see  his  father  down-stairs  :  and  Tom  com- 
plied, though  with  an  intense  inward  shrinking  from  the  pain- 
ful scene.  The  hearts  of  all  three  had  been  more  deeply 
dejected  than  ever  during  the  last  few  days.     For  Guest  &  Co. 


THE   DOWNFALL.  273 

had  not  bought  the  mill :  both  mill  and  land  had  been  knocked 
down  to  Wakeni,  who  had  been  over  the  premises,  and  had 
laid  before  Mr.  Deane  and  Mr.  Glegg,  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  pres- 
ence, his  willingness  to  employ  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  case  of  his 
recovery,  as  a  manager  of  the  business.  This  proposition  had 
occasioned  much  family  debating.  Uncles  and  aunts  were 
almost  unanimously  of  opinion  that  such  an  offer  ought  not  to 
be  rejected  when  there  was  nothing  in  the  way  but  a  feeling 
in  Mr.  Tulliver's  mind,  which,  as  neither  aunts  nor  uncles 
shared  it,  was  regarded  as  entirely  unreasonable  and  childish  — 
indeed,  as  a  transferring  towards  Wakem  of  that  indignation 
and  hatred  which  Mr.  Tulliver  ought  properly  to  have  directed 
against  himself  for  his  general  quarrelsomeness,  and  his  special 
exhibition  of  it  in  going  to  law.  Here  was  an  opportunity  for 
Mr.  Tulliver  to  provide  for  his  wife  and  daughter  without  any 
assistance  from  his  wife's  relations,  and  without  that  too  evi- 
dent descent  into  pauperism  which  makes  it  annoying  to  re- 
spectable people  to  meet  the  degraded  member  of  the  family 
by  the  wayside.  Mr.  Tulliver,  Mrs.  Glegg  considered,  must 
be  made  to  feel,  when  he  came  to  his  right  mind,  that  he  could 
never  humble  himself  enough  ;  for  that  had  come  which  she 
had  always  foreseen  would  come  of  his  insolence  in  time  past 
"  to  them  as  were  the  best  friends  he  'd  got  to  look  to."  Mr. 
Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane  were  less  stern  in  their  views,  but  they 
both  of  them  thought  Tulliver  had  done  enough  harm  by  his 
hot-tempered  crotchets,  and  ought  to  put  them  out  of  the  ques- 
tion when  a  livelihood  was  offered  him  :  Wakem  showed  a 
right  feeling  about  the  matter  —  he  had  no  grudge  against 
Tulliver.  Tom  had  protested  against  entertaining  the  proposi- 
tion :  he  should  n't  like  his  father  to  be  under  Wakem ;  he 
thought  it  would  look  mean-spirited ;  but  his  mother's  main 
distress  was  the  utter  impossibility  of  ever  "  turning  Mr.  Tul- 
liver round  about  Wakem,"  or  getting  him  to  hear  reason  — 
no,  they  would  all  have  to  go  and  live  in  a  pigsty  on  purpose 
to  spite  Wakem,  who  spoke  "so  as  nobody  could  be  fairer." 
Indeed,  Mrs.  Tulliver's  mind  was  reduced  to  such  confusion  by 
living  in  this  strange  medium  of  unaccountable  sorrow,  against 
which  she  continually  appealed  by  asking,  "Oh  dear,  what 

VOL    II.  18 


274  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

have  I  done  to  deserve  worse  than  other  women  ? "  that 
Maggie  began  to  suspect  her  poor  mother's  wits  were  quite 
going. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  when  they  were  out  of  their  father's  room 
together,  "  we  viust  try  to  make  father  understand  a  little  of 
what  has  happened  before  lie  goes  down-stairs.  But  we  must 
get  my  mother  away.  She  will  say  something  that  will  do 
harm.  Ask  Kezia  to  fetch  her  down,  and  keep  her  engaged 
with  something  in  the  kitchen." 

Kezia  was  equal  to  the  task.  Having  declared  her  intention 
of  staying  till  the  master  could  get  about  again,  ''  wage  or  no 
wage,"  she  had  found  a  certain  recompense  in  keeping  a  strong 
hand  over  her  mistress,  scolding  her  for  '^moithering"  herself, 
and  going  about  all  day  without  changing  her  cap,  and  looking 
as  if  she  was  "mushed."  Altogether,  this  time  of  trouble  was 
rather  a  Saturnalian  time  to  Kezia :  she  could  scold  her  betters 
with  unreproved  freedom.  On  this  particular  occasion  there 
were  drying  clothes  to  be  fetched  in  :  she  wished  to  know  if 
one  pair  of  hands  could  do  everything  indoors  and  out,  and 
observed  that  she  should  have  thought  it  would  be  good  for 
Mrs.  Tulliver  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  get  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  by  doing  that  needful  piece  of  work.  Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver 
■went  submissively  down-stairs :  to  be  ordered  about  by  a  ser- 
vant was  the  last  remnant  of  her  household  dignities  —  she 
would  soon  have  no  servant  to  scold  her.  Mr.  Tulliver  was 
resting  in  his  chair  a  little  after  the  fatigue  of  dressing,  and 
Maggie  and  Tom  were  seated  near  him,  when  Luke  entered  to 
ask  if  he  should  help  master  down-stairs. 

"Ay,  ay,  Luke,  stop  a  bit,  sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
pointing  his  stick  towards  a  chair,  and  looking  at  him  with 
that  pursuant  gaze  Avhich  convalescent  persons  often  have 
for  those  who  have  tended  them,  reminding  one  of  an  infant 
gazing  about  after  its  nurse.  For  Luke  had  been  a  constant 
night-watcher  by  his  master's  bed. 

"How's  the  water  now,  eh,  Luke?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 
"  Dix  has  n't  been  choking  you  up  again,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  it 's  all  right." 

"  Ay,  I  thought  not :  he  won't  be  in  a  hurry  at  that  again, 


THE  DOWNFALL.  275 

now  Eiley  's  been   to  settle  him.     That  was  what  I  said  to 
Riley  yesterday  ...  I  said  —  " 

Mr.  Tulliver  leaned  forward,  resting  his  elbows  on  the 
arm-chair,  and  looking  on  the  ground  as  if  in  search  of  some- 
thing—  striving  after  vanishing  images  like  a  man  struggling 
against  a  doze.  Maggie  looked  at  Tom  in  mute  distress  — 
their  father's  mind  was  so  far  off  the  present,  which  would 
by-and-by  thrust  itself  on  his  wandering  consciousness  !  Tom 
was  almost  ready  to  rush  away,  with  that  impatience  of  pain- 
ful emotion  which  makes  one  of  the  differences  between  youth 
and  maiden,  man  and  woman. 

*'  Father,"  said  Maggie,  laying  her  hand  on  his,  "  don't  you 
remember  that  Mr.  Eiley  is  dead  ?  " 

"  Dead  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  sharply,  looking  in  her  face 
with  a  strange,  examining  glance. 

"  Yes,  he  died  of  apoplexy  nearly  a  year  ago  ;  I  remember 
hearing  you  say  you  had  to  pay  mone^r  for  him ;  and  he  left 
his  daughters  badly  off — one  of  them  is  under-teacher  at  Miss 
Firniss's,  where  I  've  been  to  school,  you  know  —  " 

"  Ah  ? "  said  her  father,  doubtfully,  still  looking  in  her 
face.  But  as  soon  as  Tom  began  to  speak  he  turned  to  look 
at  him  with  the  same  inquiring  glances,  as  if  he  were  rather 
surprised  at  the  presence  of  these  two  young  people.  When- 
ever his  mind  was  wandering  in  the  far  past,  he  fell  into  this 
oblivion  of  their  actual  faces  :  they  were  not  those  of  the  lad 
and  the  little  wench  who  belonged  to  that  past. 

"  It 's  a  long  while  since  you  had  the  dispute  with  Dix, 
father,"  said  Tom.  "  I  remember  your  talking  about  it  three 
years  ago,  before  I  went  to  school  at  Mr.  Stelling's.  I  've 
been  at  school  there  three  years  ;  don't  you  remember  ?  " 
'  Mr.  Tulliver  threw  himself  backward  again,  losing  the  child- 
like outward  glance  under  a  rush  of  new  ideas,  which  diverted 
him  from  external  impressions. 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  said,  after  a  minnte  or  two,  "I've  paid  a  deal 
o'  money  ...  I  was  determined  my  son  should  have  a  good 
eddication  :  I  'd  none  myself,  and  I  've  felt  the  miss  of  it. 
And  he  '11  want  no  other  fortin  :  that 's  what  I  say  ...  if 
Wakem  was  to  get  the  better  of  me  again  — " 


276  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

The  thought  of  Wakem  roused  new  vibrations,  and  after 
a  moment's  pause  he  began  to  look  at  the  coat  he  had  on, 
and  to  feel  in  his  side-pocket.  Then  he  turned  to  Tom,  and 
said,  in  his  old  sharp  way,  "Where  have  they  put  Gore's 
letter  ?  " 

It  was  close  at  hand  in  a  drawer,  for  he  had  often  asked  for 
it  before. 

"  You  know  what  there  is  in  the  letter,  father  ?  "  said  Tom, 
as  he  gave  it  to  him. 

"  To  be  sure  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  angrily. 
"  What  o'  that  ?  If  Furley  can't  take  to  the  property,  some- 
body else  can  :  there  's  plenty  o'  people  in  the  world  besides 
Furley.  But  it's  hindering  —  my  not  being  well  —  go  and 
tell  'em  to  get  the  horse  in  the  gig,  Luke  :  I  can  get  down  to 
St.  Ogg's  well  enough  —  Gore  's  expecting  me." 

"  No,  dear  father  ! "  Maggie  burst  out  entreatingly,  "  it 's  a 
very  long  while  since  all  that :  you  've  been  ill  a  great  many 
■^eeks  —  more  than  two  months  —  everything  is  changed." 

Mr.  Tulliver  looked  at  them  all  three  alternately  with  a 
startled  gaze  :  the  idea  that  much  had  happened  of  which  he 
knew  nothing  had  often  transiently  arrested  him  before,  but  it 
came  upon  him  now  with  entire  novelty. 

"Yes,  father,"  said  Tom,  in  answer  to  the  gaze.  "You 
need  n't  trouble  your  mind  about  business  until  you  are  quite 
well :  everything  is  settled  about  that  for  the  present  —  about 
the  mill  and  the  land  and  the  debts." 

"  What 's  settled,  then  ?  "  said  his  father,  angrily. 

"Don't  you  take  on  too  much  about  it,  sir,"  said  Luke. 
"  You  'd  ha'  paid  iverybody  if  you  could  —  that 's  what  I  said 
to  Master  Tom— I  said  you'd  ha'  paid  iverybody  if  you 
could." 

Good  Luke  felt,  after  the  manner  of  contented  hard-working 
men  whose  lives  have  been  spent  in  servitude,  that  sense  of 
natural  fitness  in  rank  which  made  his  master's  downfall  a 
tragedy  to  him.  He  was  urged,  in  his  slow  way,  to  say  some- 
thing that  would  express  his  share  in  the  family  sorrow,  and 
these  words,  which  he  had  used  over  and  over  again  to  Tom 
when  he  wanted  to  decline  the  full  payment  of  his  fifty  pounda 


THE  DOWNFALL.  277 

out  of  the  children's  money,  were  the  most  ready  to  his  tongue. 
They  were  just  the  words  to  lay  the  most  painful  hold  on  his 
master's  bewildered  mind, 

"  Paid  everybody  ?  "  he  said,  with  vehement  agitation,  his 
face  flushing,  and  his  eye  lighting  up.  "  Why  .  .  .  what  .  .  . 
have  they  made  me  a  bankrupt  ?  " 

"  Oh  father,  dear  father !  "  said  Maggie,  who  thought  that 
terrible  word  really  represented  the  fact;  ''bear  it  well  — 
because  we  love  you  —  your  children  will  always  love  you. 
Tom  will  pay  them  all ;  he  says  he  will,  when  he  's  a  man." 

She  felt  her  father  beginning  to  tremble  —  his  voice  trem- 
bled too,  as  he  said,  after  a  few  moments  — 

"  Ay,  my  little  wench,  but  I  shall  never  live  twice  o'er." 

"  But  perhaps  you  will  live  to  see  me  pay  everybody,  father," 
said  Tom,  speaking  with  a  great  effort. 

"  Ah,  my  lad,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  shaking  his  head  slowly, 
"  but  what 's  broke  can  never  be  whole  again :  it  'ud  be  your 
doing,  not  mine."  Then  looking  up  at  him,  "  You  're  only 
sixteen  —  it 's  an  up-hill  fight  for  you  —  but  you  must  n't 
throw  it  at  your  father ;  the  raskills  have  been  too  many 
for  him.  I  've  given  you  a  good  eddication  —  that  '11  start 
you." 

Something  in  his  throat  half  choked  the  last  words ;  the 
flush  which  had  alarmed  his  children  because  it  had  so  often 
preceded  a  recurrence  of  paralysis,  had  subsided,  and  his  face 
looked  pale  and  tremulous.  Tom  said  nothing :  he  was  still 
struggling  against  his  inclination  to  rush  away.  His  father 
remained  quiet  a  minute  or  two,  but  his  mind  did  not  seem  to 
be  wandering  again. 

"  Have  they  sold  me  up,  then  ?  "  he  said,  more  calmly,  as  if 
he  were  possessed  simply  by  the  desire  to  know  what  had 
happened. 

"Everything  is  sold,  father;  but  we  don't  know  all  about 
the  mill  and  the  land  yet,"  said  Tom,  anxious  to  ward  oif  any 
question  leading  to  the  fact  that  Wakem  was  the  purchaser. 

"  You  must  not  be  surprised  to  see  the  room  look  very  bare 
down-stairs,  father,"  said  Maggie;  "but  rhere 's  your  chair 
and  the  bureau  —  thet/'re  not  gone." 


278  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Let  us  go  —  help  me  down,  Luke  —  I  '11  go  and  see  every- 
thing," said  Mr.  Tulliver,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and  stretching 
out  his  other  hand  towards  Luke. 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  Luke,  as  he  gave  his  arm  to  his  master, 
"you'll  make  up  your  mind  to 't  a  bit  better  when  you've 
seen  ivery thing :  you  "11  get  used  to 't.  That 's  what  my 
mother  says  about  her  shortness  o'  breath  —  she  says  she 's 
made  friends  wi't  now,  though  she  fought  again'  it  sore  when 
it  fust  come  on." 

Maggie  ran  on  before  to  see  that  all  was  right  in  the  dreary 
parlor,  where  the  fire,  dulled  by  the  frosty  sunshine,  seemed 
part  of  the  general  shabbiness.  She  turned  her  father's  chair, 
and  pushed  aside  the  table  to  make  an  easy  way  for  him,  and 
then  stood  with  a  beating  heart  to  see  him  enter  and  look 
round  for  the  first  time.  Tom  advanced  before  him,  carrying 
the  leg-rest,  and  stood  beside  Maggie  on  the  hearth.  Of  those 
two  young  hearts  Tom's  suffered  the  most  unmixed  pain,  for 
Maggie,  with  all  her  keen  susceptibility,  yet  felt  as  if  the 
sorrow  made  larger  room  for  her  love  to  flow  in,  and  gave 
breathing-space  to  her  passionate  nature.  No  true  boy  feels 
that :  he  would  rather  go  and  slay  the  Nemeau  lion,  or  per- 
form any  round  of  heroic  labors,  than  endure  perpetual 
appeals  to  his  pity,  for  evils  over  which  he  can  make  no 
conquest. 

Mr.  Tulliver  paused  just  inside  the  door,  resting  on  Luke, 
and  looking  round  him  at  all  the  bare  places,  which  for  him 
were  filled  with  the  shadows  of  departed  objects  —  the  daily 
companions  of  his  life.  His  faculties  seemed  to  be  renewing 
their  strength  from  getting  a  footing  on  this  demonstration  of 
the  senses. 

"Ah  !  "  he  said,  slowly,  moving  towards  his  chair,  "they've 
sold  me  up  .   .  .  they  've  sold  me  up." 

Then  seating  himself,  and  laying  down  his  stick,  while 
Luke  left  the  room,  he  looked  round  again. 

"  They  've  left  the  big  Bible,"  he  said.  "  It 's  got  every- 
thing in  —  when  I  was  born  and  married  —  bring  it  me, 
Tom." 

The  quarto  Bible  was  laid  open  before  him  at  the  fly-leaf, 


THE   DOWNFALL.  279 

and  while  he  was  reading  with  slowly  travelling  eyes,  Mrs. 
Tulliver  entered  the  room,  but  stood  iu  mute  surprise  to  find 
her  llusband  down  already,  and  with  the  great  Bible  before 
him. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  looking  at  a  spot  where  his  finger  rested, 
"  my  mother  was  Margaret  Beaton  —  she  died  when  she  was 
forty-seven  :  hers  was  n't  a  long-lived  family  —  we  're  oui- 
mother's  children  —  Gritty  and  me  are  —  we  shall  go  to  our 
last  bed  before  long." 

He  seemed  to  be  pausing  over  the  record  of  his  sister's  birth 
and  marriage,  as  if  it  were  suggesting  new  thoughts  to  him : 
then  he  suddenly  looked  up  at  Tom,  and  said,  in  a  sharp  tone 
of  alarm  — 

"  They  have  n't  come  upo'  Moss  for  the  money  as  I  lent 
him,  have  they  ?  " 

"No,  father,"  said  Tom  ;  "the  note  was  burnt." 

Mr.  Tulliver  turned  his  eyes  on  the  page  again,  and  pres- 
ently said  — 

"Ah  .  .  .  Elizabeth  Dodson  ...  it's  eighteen  year  since 
I  married  her  —  " 

"  Come  next  Lady  Day,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  going  up  to  his 
side  and  looking  at  the  page. 

Her  husband  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  on  her  face. 

"Poor  Bessy,"  he  said,  "you  was  a  pretty  lass  then  — 
everybody  said  so  —  and  I  used  to  think  you  kept  your  good 
looks  rarely.  But  you  're  sorely  aged  .  .  .  don't  you  bear  me 
ill-will  ...  I  meant  to  do  well  by  you  ...  we  promised  one 
another  for  better  or  for  worse  —  " 

"  But  I  never  thought  it  'ud  be  so  for  worse  as  this,"  said 
poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  the  strange  scared  look  that  had  come 
over  her  of  late ;  "  and  my  poor  father  gave  me  away  .  .  . 
and  to  come  on  so  all  at  once  — " 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Maggie,  "  don't  talk  in  that  way." 

"No,  I  know  you  won't  let  your  poor  mother  speak  .  .  . 
that 's  been  the  way  all  my  life  .  .  .  your  father  never  minded 
what  I  said  ...  it  'ud  have  been  o'  no  use  for  me  to  beg  and 
pray  .  .  .  and  it  'ud  be  no  use  now,  not  if  I  was  to  go  down  o' 
my  hands  and  knees  —  " 


280  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Don't  say  so,  Bessy,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  whose  pride,  in 
these  first  moments  of  humiliation,  was  in  abeyance  to  the 
sense  of  some  justice  in  his  wife's  reproach.  "If  there  '5, any- 
thing left  as  I  could  do  to  make  you  amends,  I  would  n't  say 
you  nay." 

"  Then  we  might  stay  here  and  get  a  living,  and  I  might 
keep  among  my  own  sisters  .  .  .  and  me  been  such  a  good 
wife  to  you,  and  never  crossed  you  from  week's  end  to  week's 
end  .  .  .  and  they  all  say  so  .  .  .  they  say  it  'ud  be  nothing 
but  right  .  .  .  only  you  're  so  turned  against  Wakem." 

"  Mother,"  said  Tom,  severely,  "  this  is  not  the  time  to  talk 
about  that." 

"  Let  her  be/'  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  Say  what  you  mean, 
Bessy." 

"  Why,  now  the  mill  and  the  land 's  all  Wakem's,  and  he  's 
got  everything  in  his  hands,  what 's  the  use  o'  setting  your 
face  against  him  ?  —  when  he  says  you  may  stay  here,  and 
speaks  as  fair  as  can  be,  and  says  you  may  manage  the  busi- 
ness, and  have  thirty  shilling  a-week,  and  a  horse  to  ride 
about  to  market  ?  And  where  have  we  got  to  put  our  heads  ? 
We  must  go  into  one  o'  the  cottages  in  the  village  .  .  .  and 
me  and  my  children  brought  down  to  that  .  .  .  and  all  because 
you  must  set  vcu^  mind  against  folks  till  there's  no  turning 
you." 

Mr.  Tulliver  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair,  trembling. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  like  wi'  me,  Bessy,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice ;  "  I  've  been  the  bringing  of  you  to  poverty  .  .  .  this 
■vorld  's  too  many  for  me  ...I'm  nought  but  a  bankrupt  — 
it 's  no  use  standing  up  for  anything  now." 

"Father,"  said  Tom,  "I  don't  agree  with  my  mother  or  my 
uncles,  and  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  submit  to  be  under 
Wakem.  I  get  a  pound  a-week  now,  and  you  can  find  some- 
thing else  to  do  when  you  get  well." 

"  Say  no  more,  Tom,  say  no  more :  I  've  had  enough  for  this 
day.  Give  me  a  kiss,  Bessy,  and  let  us  bear  one  another  no 
ill-will :  we  shall  never  be  young  again  .  .  .  this  world  's  been 
too  many  for  me." 


THE  DOWNFALL.  281 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AN    ITEM    ADDED    TO    THE   FAMILY    REGISTER. 

That  first  moment  of  renunciation  and  submission  was 
followed  by  days  of  violent  struggle  in  the  miller's  mind,  as 
the  gradual  access  of  bodily  strength  brought  with  it  increas- 
ing ability  to  embrace  in  one  view  all  the  conflicting  condi- 
tions under  which  he  found  himself.  Feeble  limbs  easily 
resign  themselves  to  be  tethered,  and  when  we  are  subdued 
by  sickness  it  seems  possible  to  us  to  fulfil  pledges  which  the 
old  vigor  comes  back  and  breaks.  There  were  times  when 
poor  Tulliver  thought  the  fulfilment  of  his  promise  to  Bessy 
was  something  quite  too  hard  for  human  nature :  he  had 
promised  her  without  knowing  what  she  was  going  to  say  — 
she  might  as  well  have  asked  him  to  carry  a  ton  weight  on  his 
back.  But  again,  there  were  many  feelings  arguing  on  her 
side,  besides  the  sense  that  life  had  been  made  hard  to  her  by 
having  married  him.  He  saw  a  possibility,  by  much  pinching, 
of  saving  money  out  of  his  salary  towards  paying  a  second 
dividend  to  his  creditors,  and  it  would  not  be  easy  elsewhere  to 
get  a  situation  such  as  he  could  fill.  He  had  led  an  easy  life, 
ordering  much  and  working  little,  and  had  no  aptitude  for  any 
new  business.  He  must  perhaps  take  to  day -labor,  and  his  wife 
must  have  help  from  her  sisters  —  a  prospect  doubly  bitter  to 
him,  now  they  had  let  all  Bessy's  precious  things  be  sold,  proba- 
bly because  they  liked  to  set  her  against  him,  by  making  her 
feel  that  he  had  brought  her  to  that  pass.  He  listened  to  their 
admonitory  talk,  when  they  came  to  urge  on  him  what  he  was 
bound  to  do  for  poor  Bessy's  sake,  with  averted  eyes,  that 
every  now  and  then  flashed  on  them  furtively  when  their  backs 
were  turned.  Nothing  but  the  dread  of  needing  their  help 
could  have  made  it  an  easier  alternative  to  take  their  advice. 

But  the  strongest  influence  of  all  was  the  love  of  the  old 
premises  where  he  had  run  about  when  he  was  a  boy,  just  as 
Tom  had  done  after   him.     The   Tullivers  had  lived  on  this 


'2S2  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

epot  for  generations,  and  lie  had  sat  listening  on  a  low  stool 
on  winter  evenings  while  his  father  talked  of  the  old  half- 
timbered  mill  that  had  been  there  before  the  last  great  floods 
which  damaged  it  so  that  his  grandfather  pulled  it  down  and 
built  the  new  one.  It  was  when  he  got  able  to  walk  about 
and  look  at  all  the  old  objects,  that  he  felt  the  strain  of  this 
clinging  affection  for  the  old  home  as  part  of  his  life,  part  of 
himself.  He  could  n't  bear  to  think  of  himself  living  on  any 
other  spot  than  this,  where  he  knew  the  sound  of  every  gate 
and  door,  and  felt  that  the  shape  and  color  of  every  roof  and 
weather-stain  and  broken  hillock  was  good,  because  his  grow- 
ing senses  had  been  fed  on  them.  Our  instructed  vagrancy, 
which  has  hardly  time  to  linger  by  the  hedgerows,  but  runs 
away  early  to  the  tropics,  and  is  at  home  with  palms  and 
banyans,  —  which  is  nourished  on  books  of  travel,  and  stretches 
the  theatre  of  its  imagination  to  the  Zambesi, — can  hardly 
get  a  dim  notion  of  what  an  old-fashioned  man  like  Tulliver 
felt  for  this  spot,  where  all  his  memories  centred,  and  where 
life  seemed  like  a  familiar  smooth-handled  tool  that  the 
fingers  clutch  with  loving  ease.  And  just  now  he  was  living 
in  that  freshened  memory  of  the  far-off  time  which  comes  to 
us  in  the  passive  hours  of  recovery  from  sickness. 

"  Ay,  Luke,"  he  said,  one  afternoon,  as  he  stood  looking 
over  the  orchard  gate,  "I  remember  the  day  they  planted 
those  apple-trees.  My  father  was  a  huge  man  for  planting  — 
it  was  like  a  merry-making  to  him  to  get  a  cart  full  o'  young 
trees  —  and  I  used  to  stand  i'  the  cold  with  him,  and  follow 
him  about  like  a  dog." 

Then  he  turned  round,  and,  leaning  against  the  gate-post, 
looked  at  the  opposite  buildings. 

"The  old  mill  'ud  miss  me,  I  think,  Luke.  There 's  a  story 
as  when  the  mill  changes  hands,  the  river  's  angry  —  I  've 
heard  my  father  say  it  many  a  time.  There's  no  telling 
whether  there  may  n't  be  summat  i?i  the  story,  for  this  is  a 
puzzling  world,  and  Old  Harry 's  got  a  finger  in  it  —  it 's  been 
too  many  for  me,  I  know." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  said  Luke,  with  soothing  sympathy,  "  what  wi' 
the  rust  on  the  wheat,  an'  the  firin'  o'  the  ricks  an'  that,  as 


THE  DOWNFALL.  2S3 

I've  seen  i'  my  time  —  things  often  looks  comical:   there's 

the  bacon   fat  wi'  our  last   pig   runs   away   like   butter it 

ieaves  nought  but  a  scratchin'." 

"It's  just  as  if  it  was  yesterday,  now,"  Mr.  Tulliver  went 
on,  "when  my  father  began  the  malting.  I  remember,  the 
day  they  finished  the  malt-house,  I  thought  summat  great  was 
to  come  of  it ;  for  we  'd  a  plum-pudding  that  day  and  a  bit  of 
a  feast,  and  I  said  to  my  mother  —  she  was  a  fine  dark-eyed 
woman,  my  mother  was  —  the  little  wench  'ull  be  as  like  her 
as  two  peas."  —  Here  Mr.  Tulliver  put  his  stick  between  his 
legs,  and  took  out  his  snuff-box,  for  the  greater  enjoyment 
of  this  anecdote,  which  dropped  from  him  in  fragments,  as  if 
he  every  other  moment  lost  narration  in  vision.  "  I  was  a 
little  chap  no  higher  much  than  my  mother's  knee  —  she  was 
sore  fond  of  us  children,  Gritty  and  me  —  and  so  I  said  to 
her,  '  Mother,'  I  said,  '  shall  we  have  plum-pudding  every  day 
because  o'  the  malt-house  ? '  She  used  to  tell  me  o'  that  till 
her  dying  day.  She  was  but  a  young  woman  when  she  died, 
my  mother  was.  But  it 's  forty  good  year  since  they  finished 
the  malt-house,  and  it  is  n't  many  days  out  of  'em  all,  as  I 
have  n't  looked  out  into  the  yard  there,  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning  —  all  weathers,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  I 
should  go  off  my  head  in  a  new  place.  I  should  be  like  as  if 
I  'd  lost  my  way.  It 's  all  hard,  whichever  way  I  look  at  it  — 
the  harness  'ull  gall  me  —  but  it  'ud  be  summat  to  draw  along 
the  old  road,  instead  of  a  new  un." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  said  Luke,  ''  you  'd  be  a  deal  better  here  nor  in 
some  new  place.  I  can't  abide  new  places  mysen :  things  is 
allays  awk'ard  —  narrow-wheeled  waggins,  belike,  and  the  stiles 
all  another  sort,  an'  oat-cake  i'  some  places,  tow'rt  th'  head  o' 
the  Floss,  there.     It's  poor  work,  changing  your  country-side." 

"  But  I  doubt,  Luke,  they  '11  be  for  getting  rid  o'  Ben,  and 
making  you  do  with  a  lad  —  and  I  must  help  a  bit  wi'  the 
mill.     You  '11  have  a  worse  place." 

"  Ne'er  mind,  sir,"  said  Luke,  "  I  shan't  plague  mysen. 
I  'n  been  wi'  you  twenty  year,  an'  you  can't  get  twenty  year 
wi'  whistlin'  for  'em,  no  more  nor  you  can  make  the  trees 
grow :  you  mun  wait  till  God  A'mighty  sends  'em.     I  can't 


284  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

abide  new  victual  nor  new  faces,  /  can't  —  you  niver  know 
but  what  they  '11  gripe  you." 

The  walk  was  finished  in  silence  after  this,  for  Luke  had 
disburthened  himself  of  thoughts  to  an  extent  that  left  his 
conversational  resources  quite  barren,  and  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
relapsed  from  his  recollections  into  a  painful  meditation  on 
the  choice  of  hardships  before  him.  Maggie  noticed  that  he 
was  unusually  absent  that  evening  at  tea ;  and  afterwards  he 
sat  leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  looking  at  the  ground,  moving 
his  lips,  and  shaking  his  head  from  time  to  time.  Then  he 
looked  hard  at  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  was  knitting  opposite  him, 
then  at  Maggie,  who,  as  she  bent  over  her  sewing,  was  intensely 
conscious  of  some  drama  goiug  forward  in  her  father's  mind. 
Suddenly  he  took  up  the  poker  and  broke  the  large  coal  fiercely. 

"  Dear  heart,  Mr.  Tulliver,  what  can  you  be  thinking  of  ?  " 
said  his  wife,  looking  up  in  alarm:  "it's  very  wasteful, 
breaking  the  coal,  and  we've  got  hardly  any  large  coal  left, 
and  I  don't  know  where  the  rest  is  to  come  from." 

"  I  don't  think  you  're  quite  so  well  to-night,  are  you, 
father  ?  "  said  Maggie  ;  "  you  seem  uneasy." 

"  Why,  how  is  it  Tom  does  n't  come  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
impatiently. 

"  Dear  heart !  is  it  time  ?  I  must  go  and  get  his  supper,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  laying  down  her  knitting,  and  leaving  the  room. 

" It 's  nigh  upon  half-past  eight,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  He'll 
be  here  soon.  Go,  go  and  get  the  big  Bible,  and  open  it  at  the 
beginning,  where  everything's  set  down.  And  get  the  pen 
and  ink." 

Maggie  obeyed,  wondering :  but  her  father  gave  no  further 
orders,  and  only  sat  listening  for  Tom's  footfall  on  the  gravel, 
apparently  irritated  by  the  wind,  which  had  risen,  and  was  roar- 
ing so  as  to  drown  all  other  sounds.  There  was  a  strange  light 
in  his  eyes  that  rather  frightened  Maggie :  she  began  to  wish 
that  Tom  would  come,  too. 

"  There  he  is,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  an  excited  way, 
when  the  knock  came  at  last.  Maggie  went  to  open  the  door, 
but  her  mother  came  out  of  the  kitchen,  hurriedly,  saying, 
"  Stop  a  bit,  Maggie ;  I  '11  open  it." 


THE  DOWNFALL.  285 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  begun  to  be  a  little  frightened  at  her  boy, 
but  she  was  jealous  of  every  office  others  did  for  him. 

"Your  supper's  ready  by  the  kitchen-fire,  my  boy,"  she 
Baid,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  coat.  "  You  shall  have  it  by 
yourself,  just  as  you  like,  and  I  won't  speak  to  you." 

"  I  think  my  father  wants  Tom,  mother,"  said  Maggie  ;  "  be 
must  come  into  the  parlor  first." 

Tom  entered  with  his  usual  saddened  evening  face,  but  his 
eyes  fell  immediately  on  the  open  Bible  and  the  inkstand,  and 
he  glanced  with  a  look  of  anxious  surprise  at  his  father,  who 
was  saying  — 

"  Come,  come,  you  're  late  —  I  want  you." 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter,  father  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"You  sit  down  —  all  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  peremp- 
torily. "  And,  Tom,  sit  down  here ;  I  've  got  something  for 
you  to  write  i'  the  Bible." 

They  all  three  sat  down,  looking  at  him.  He  began  to  speak, 
slowly,  looking  first  at  his  wife. 

"  I  've  made  up  my  mind,  Bessy,  and  I  '11  be  as  good  as  my 
word  to  you.  There  '11  be  the  same  grave  made  for  us  to  lie 
down  in,  and  we  must  n't  be  bearing  one  another  ill-will,  I  '11 
stop  in  the  old  place,  and  I  '11  serve  under  Wakem  —  and  I  '11 
serve  him  like  an  honest  man  :  there  's  no  Tulliver  but  what 's 
honest,  mind  that,  Tom  "  —  here  his  voice  rose  :  "  they  '11  have 
it  to  throw  up  against  me  as  I  paid  a  dividend  —  but  it  was  n't 
my  fault  —  it  was  because  there 's  raskills  in  the  world. 
They  've  been  too  many  for  me,  and  I  must  give  in.  I  '11  put 
my  neck  in  harness  —  for  you  've  a  right  to  say  as  I  've  brought 
you  into  trouble,  Bessy  —  and  I  '11  serve  him  as  honest  as  if  he 
was  no  raskill :  I  'm  an  honest  man,  though  I  shall  never  hold  my 
head  up  no  more  —  I  'm  a  tree  as  is  broke  —  a  tree  as  is  broke." 

He  paused,  and  looked  on  the  ground.  Then  suddenly  rais- 
ing his  head,  he  said,  in  a  louder  yet  deeper  tone  — 

"  But  I  won't  forgive  him  !  I  know  what  they  say  —  he  never 
meant  me  any  harm  —  that 's  the  way  Old  Harry  props  up  the 
raskills  —  he  's  been  at  the  bottom  of  everything  —  but  he 's  a 
fine  gentleman  —  I  know,  I  know.  I  should  ii't  ha'  gone  to 
law,  they  say.     But  who  made  it  so  as  there  was  no  arbitratin', 


236  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

and  no  justice  to  be  got  ?  It  signifies  nothing  to  him  —  I 
knov  that ;  he  's  one  o'  them  fine  gentlemen  as  get  money  by 
doing  business  for  poorer  folks,  and  when  he  's  made  beggars 
of  'em  he  '11  give  'em  charity.  I  won't  forgive  him  !  I  wish 
he  might  be  punished  with  shame  till  his  own  son  'ud  like  to 
forget  him.  I  wish  he  may  do  summat  as  they  'd  make  him 
work  at  the  treadmill !  But  he  won't  —  he  's  too  big  a  raskill 
to  let  the  law  lay  hold  on  him.  And  you  mind  this,  Tom  ~ 
you  never  forgive  him  neither,  if  you  mean  to  be  my  son. 
There  '11  maybe  come  a  time  when  you  may  make  him  feel  — 
it  '11  never  come  to  me  —  I  'n  got  my  head  under  the  yoke. 
Now  write  —  write  it  i'  the  Bible." 

"  Oh,  father,  what  ?  "  said  Maggie,  sinking  down  by  his  knee, 
pale  and  trembling.     ''  It 's  wicked  to  curse  and  bear  malice." 

"It  is  n't  wicked,  I  tell  you,"  said  her  father,  fiercely.  "It 's 
wicked  as  the  raskills  should  prosper  —  it 's  the  devil's  doing. 
Do  as  I  tell  you,  Tom.     Write." 

"What  am  I  to  write  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  gloomy  submission. 

"  Write  as  your  father,  Edward  Tulliver,  took  service  under 
Jolin  Wakem,  the  man  as  had  helped  to  ruin  him,  because  I  'd 
promised  my  wife  to  make  her  what  amends  I  could  for  her 
trouble,  and  because  I  wanted  to  die  in  th'  old  place  where  T 
was  born  and  my  father  was  born.  Put  that  i'  the  right  words 
—  you  know  how  —  and  then  write,  as  I  don't  forgive  Wakem 
for  all  that ;  and  for  all  I  '11  serve  him  honest,  I  wish  evil  may 
befall  him.     Write  that." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  as  Tom's  pen  moved  along  the  paper : 
Mrs.  Tulliver  looked  scared,  and  Maggie  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

"Now  let  me  hear  what  you've  wrote,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 
Tom  read  aloud,  slowly. 

"  Now  write  —  write  as  you'll  remember  what  Wakem 's  done 
to  your  father,  and  you'll  make  him  and  his  feel  it,  if  ever  the 
day  comes.     And  sign  your  name  Thomas  Tulliver." 

"  Oh  no,  father,  dear  father  !  "  said  Maggie,  almost  choked 
with  fear.     "  You  should  n't  make  Tom  Avrite  that." 

"  Be  q^uiet,  Maggie  !  "  said  Tom.     "I  shall  write  it." 


BOOK    IV. 

THE   VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION. 


CHAPTER   I. 

A   VARIATION   OF    PROTESTANTISM    UNKNOWN   TO    BOSSUET. 

Journeying  down  the  Rhone  on  a  summer's  day,  you  have 
perhaps  felt  the  sunshine  made  dreary  by  those  ruined  vil- 
lages which  stud  the  banks  in  certain  parts  of  its  course,  tell- 
ing how  the  swift  river  once  rose,  like  an  angry,  destroying 
god,  sweeping  down  the  feeble  generations  whose  breath  is 
in  their  nostrils,  and  making  their  dwellings  a  desolation. 
Strange  contrast,  you  may  have  thought,  between  the  effect 
produced  on  us  by  these  dismal  remnants  of  commonplace 
houses,  which  in  their  best  days  were  but  the  sign  of  a  sordid 
life,  belonging  in  all  its  details  to  our  own  vulgar  era ;  and 
the  effect  produced  by  those  ruins  on  the  castled  Rhine,  which 
have  crumbled  and  mellowed  into  such  harmony  with  the 
green  and  rocky  steeps,  that  they  seem  to  have  a  natural  fit- 
ness, like  the  mountain-pine  :  nay,  even  in  the  day  when  they 
were  built  they  must  have  had  this  fitness,  as  if  they  had  been 
raised  by  an  earth-born  race,  who  had  inherited  from  their 
mighty  parent  a  sublime  instinct  of  form.  And  that  was  a 
day  of  romance  !  If  those  robber-barons  were  somewhat  grim 
and  drunken  ogres,  they  had  a  certain  grandeur  of  the  wild 
beast  in  them  —  they  were  forest  boars  with  tusks,  tearing 
and  rending,  not  the  ordinary  domestic  grunter ;  they  repre- 
sented the  demon  forces  forever  in  collision  with  beauty,  virtue, 
and  the  gentle  uses  of  life  ;  they  made  a  fine  contrast  in  the 
picture  with  the  wandering  minstrel,  the  soft-lipped  princess, 
the  pious  recluse,  and  the  timid  Israelite.     That  was  a  time  of 


288  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

color,  when  the  sunlight  fell  on  glanciug  steel  and  floating 
banners  ;  a  time  of  adventure  and  fierce  struggle  —  nay,  of 
living,  religious  art  and  religious  enthusiasm  ;  for  were  not 
cathedrals  built  in  those  days,  and  did  not  great  emperors 
leave  their  Western  palaces  to  die  before  the  infidel  strong- 
holds in  the  sacred  East  ?  Therefore  it  is  that  these  Rhine 
castles  thrill  me  with  a  sense  of  poetry  :  they  belong  to  the 
grand  historic  life  of  humanity,  and  raise  up  for  me  the  vision 
of  an  epoch.  But  these  dead-tinted,  hollowed-eyed,  angular 
skeletons  or  villages  on  the  Rhone  oppress  me  with  the  feeling 
that  human  life  —  very  much  of  it  —  is  a  narrow,  ugly,  grovel- 
ling existence,  which  even  calamity  does  not  elevate,  but  rather 
tends  to  exhibit  in  all  its  bare  vulgarity  of  conception  ;  and  1 
have  a  cruel  conviction  that  the  lives  these  ruins  are  the  traces 
of,  were  part  of  a  gross  sum  of  obscure  vitality,  that  will  be 
swept  into  the  same  oblivion  with  the  generations  of  ants  and 

beavers. 

Perhaps  something  akin  to  this  oppressive  feeling  may  have 
weighed  upon  you  in  watching  this  old-fashioned  family  life 
on  the  banks  of  the  Floss,  which  even  sorrow  hardly  suffices 
to  lift  above  the  level  of  the  tragi-comic.  It  is  a  sordid  life, 
you  say,  this  of  the  Tullivers  and  Dodsons  —  irradiated  by 
no  sublime  principles,  no  romantic  visions,  no  active,  self- 
renouncing  faith  —  moved  by  none  of  those  wild,  uncontrol- 
lable passions  which  create  the  dark  shadows  of  misery  and 
crime  —  without  that  primitive  rough  simplicity  of  wants, 
that  hard  submissive  ill-paid  toil,  that  childlike  spelling-out  of 
what  nature  has  written,  which  gives  its  poetry  to  peasant  life. 
Here,  one  has  conventional  worldly  notions  and  habits  with- 
out instruction  and  without  polish  —  surely  the  most  prosaic 
form  of  human  life  :  proud  respectability  in  a  gig  of  unfash- 
ionable build :  worldliness  without  side-dishes.  Observing 
these  people  narrowly,  even  when  the  iron  hand  of  misfortune 
has  shaken  them  from  their  unquestioning  hold  on  the  world, 
one  sees  little  trace  of  religion,  still  less  of  a  distinctively 
Christian  creed.  Their  belief  in  the  Unseen,  so  far  as  it 
manifests  itself  at  all,  seems  to  be  rather  of  a  pagan  kind ; 
their  moral  notions,  though  held  with  strong  tenacity,  seem 


THE   VALLEY   OF  HUMILIATION.  289 

to  have  no  standard  beyond  hereditary  custom.  You  could 
not  live  among  such  people ;  you  are  stifled  for  want  of  an 
outlet  towards  something  beautiful,  great,  or  noble  ;  you  are 
irritated  with  these  dull  men  and  women,  as  a  kind  of  popu- 
lation out  of  keeping  with  the  earth  on  which  they  live  — 
with  this  rich  plain  where  the  great  river  flows  forever  on- 
ward, and  links  the  small  pulse  of  the  old  English  town  with 
the  beatings  of  the  world's  mighty  heart.  A  vigorous  super- 
stition, that  lashes  its  gods  or  lashes  its  own  back,  seems  to  be 
more  congruous  with  the  mystery  of  the  human  lot,  than  the 
mental  condition  of  these  emmet-like  Dodsons  and  Tullivers. 

I  share  with  you  this  sense  of  oppressive  narrowness ;  but 
it  is  necessary  that  we  should  feel  it,  if  we  care  to  understand 
how  it  acted  on  the  lives  of  Tom  and  Maggie  —  how  it  has 
acted  on  young  natures  in  many  generations,  that  in  the  on- 
ward tendency  of  human  things  have  risen  above  the  mental 
level  of  the  generation  before  them,  to  which  they  have  been 
nevertheless  tied  by  the  strongest  fibres  of  their  hearts.  The 
suffering,  whether  of  martyr  or  victim,  which  belongs  to  everj 
historical  advance  of  mankind,  is  represented  in  this  way  in 
every  town,  and  by  hundreds  of  obscure  hearths ;  and  we  need 
not  shrink  from  this  comparison  of  small  things  with  great ; 
for  does  not  science  tell  us  that  its  highest  striving  is  after 
the  ascertainment  of  a  unity  which  shall  bind  the  smallest 
things  with  the  greatest  ?  In  natural  science,  I  have  under- 
derstood,  there  is  nothing  petty  to  the  mind  that  has  a  large 
vision  of  relations,  and  to  which  every  single  object  suggests 
a  vast  sum  of  conditions.  It  is  surely  the  same  with  the 
observation  of  human  life. 

Certainly  the  religious  and  moral  ideas  of  the  Dodsons  and 
Tullivers  were  of  too  specific  a  kind  to  be  arrived  at  deduc- 
tively, from  the  statement  that  they  were  part  of  the  Protes- 
tant population  of  Great  Britain.  Their  theory  of  life  had 
its  core  of  soundness,  as  all  theories  must  have  on  which 
decent  and  prosperous  families  have  been  reared  and  have 
flourished ;  but  it  had  the  very  slightest  tincture  of  theology. 
If,  in  the  maiden  days  of  the  Dodson  sisters,  their  Bibles 
opened  more  easily  at  some  parts  than  others,  it  was  because 

VOL.  n.  19 


290  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

of  dried  tulip-petals,  which  had  been  distributed  quite  impar- 
tially, without  preference  for  the  historical,  devotional,  oi 
doctrinal.  Their  religion  was  of  a  simple,  semi-pagan  kind, 
but  there  was  no  heresy  in  it  —  if  heresy  properly  means 
choice  —  for  they  did  n't  know  there  was  any  other  religion, 
except  that  of  chapel-goers,  which  appeared  to  run  in  families, 
like  asthma.  How  should  they  know  ?  The  vicar  of  their 
pleasant  rural  parish  was  not  a  cOiitroversialist,  but  a  good 
hand  at  whist,  and  one  who  had  a  joke  always  ready  for  a 
blooming  female  parishioner.  The  religion  of  the  Dodsons 
consisted  in  revering  whatever  was  customary  and  respecta- 
ble :  it  was  necessary  to  be  baptized,  else  one  could  not  be 
buried  in  the  churchyard,  and  to  take  the  sacrament  before 
death  as  a  security  against  more  dimly  understood  perils  ;  but 
it  was  of  equal  necessity  to  have  the  proper  pall-bearers  and 
well-cured  hams  at  one's  funeral,  and  to  leave  an  unimpeach- 
able will.  A  Dodson  would  not  be  taxed  with  the  omission 
of  anything  that  was  becoming,  or  that  belonged  to  that  eter- 
nal fitness  of  things  which  was  plainly  indicated  in  the  prac- 
tice of  the  most  substantial  parishioners,  and  in  the  family 
traditions  —  such  as,  obedience  to  parents,  faithfulness  to  kin- 
dred, industry,  rigid  honesty,  thrift,  the  thorough  scouring  of 
wooden  and  copper  utensils,  the  hoarding  of  coins  likely  to 
disappear  from  the  currency,  the  production  of  first-rate  com- 
modities for  the  market,  and  the  general  preference  for  what- 
ever was  home-made.  The  Dodsons  were  a  very  proud  race, 
and  their  pride  lay  in  the  utter  frustration  of  all  desire  to 
tax  them  with  a  breach  of  traditional  duty  or  propriety.  A 
wholesome  pride  in  many  respects,  since  it  identified  honor 
with  perfect  integrity,  thoroughness  of  work,  and  faithfulness 
to  admitted  rules  :  and  society  owes  some  worthy  qualities  in 
many  of  her  members  to  mothers  of  the  Dodson  class,  who 
made  their  butter  and  their  fromenty  well,  and  would  have 
felt  disgraced  to  make  it  otherwise.  To  be  honest  and  poor 
was  never  a  Dodson  motto,  still  less  to  seem  rich  though  being 
poor ;  rather,  the  family  badge  was  to  be  honest  and  rich ; 
and  not  only  rich,  but  richer  than  was  supposed.  To  live  re- 
spected; and  have  the  proper  bearers  at  your  funeral,  was  an 


THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  291 

achievement  of  the  ends  of  existence  that  would  be  entirely 
nullified  if,  on  the  reading  of  your  will,  you  sank  in  the  opin- 
ion  of  your  fellow-men,  either  by  turning  out  to  be  poorer 
than  they  expected,  or  by  leaving  your  money  in  a  capricious 
manner,  without  strict  regard  to  degrees  of  kin.  The  right 
thing  must  always  be  done  towards  kindred.  The  right 
thing  was  to  correct  them  severely,  if  they  were  other  than  a 
credit  to  the  family,  but  still  not  to  alienate  from  them  the 
smallest  rightful  share  in  the  family  shoe-buckles  and  other 
property.  A  conspicuous  quality  in  the  Dodson  character  was 
its  genuineness  :  its  vices  and  virtues  alike  were  phases  of  a 
proud  honest  egoism,  which  had  a  hearty  dislike  to  whatever 
made  against  its  own  credit  and  interest,  and  would  be  frankly 
hard  of  speech  to  inconvenient  "  kin,"  but  would  never  for- 
sake or  ignore  them  —  would  not  let  them  want  bread,  but 
only  require  them  to  eat  it  with  bitter  herbs. 

The  same  sort  of  traditional  belief  ran  in  the  Tulliver  veins, 
but  it  was  carried  in  richer  blood,  having  elements  of  generous 
imprudence,  warm  affection,  and  hot-tempered  rashness.  Mr. 
Tulliver's  grandfather  had  been  heard  to  say  that  he  was  de- 
scended from  one  Ealph  Tulliver,  a  wonderfully  clever  fellow, 
who  had  ruined  himself.  It  is  likely  enough  that  the  clever 
Ralph  was  a  high  liver,  rode  spirited  horses,  and  was  very 
decidedly  of  his  own  opinion.  On  the  other  hand,  nobody  had 
ever  heard  of  a  Dodson  who  had  ruined  himself :  it  was  not 
the  way  of  that  family. 

If  such  were  the  views  of  life  on  which  the  Dodsons  and 
Tullivers  had  been  reared  in  the  praiseworthy  past  of  Pitt 
and  high  prices,  you  will  infer  from  what  you  already  know 
concerniug  the  state  of  society  in  St.  Ogg's,  that  there  had 
been  no  highly  modifying  influence  to  act  on  them  in  their 
maturer  life.  It  was  still  possible,  even  in  that  later  time  of 
anti-Catholic  preaching,  for  people  to  hold  many  pagan  ideas, 
and  believe  themselves  good  church-people  notwithstanding; 
so  we  need  hardly  feel  any  surprise  at  the  fact  that  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver, though  a  regular  church-goer,  recorded  his  vindictiveness 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  his  Bible.  It  was  not  that  any  harm  could 
be  said  concerning  the  vicar  of  that  charming  rural  parish  to 


292  THE   MILL   ON    THE   FLOSS. 

whicli  Dorlcote  Mill  belonged  :  lie  was  a  man  of  excellent 
family,  an  irreproachable  bachelor,  of  elegant  pursuits,  —  had 
taken  honors,  and  held  a  fellowship.  Mr.  Tulliver  regarded 
him  with  dutiful  respect,  as  he  did  everything  else  belonging 
to  the  church-service ;  but  he  considered  that  church  was  one 
thing  and  common  sense  another,  and  he  wanted  nobody  to 
tell  him  what  common  sense  was.  Certain  seeds  which  are 
required  to  find  a  nidus  for  themselves  under  unfavorable  cir- 
cumstances, have  been  supplied  by  nature  with  an  apparatus 
of  hooks,  so  that  they  will  get  a  hold  on  very  unreceptive  sur- 
faces. The  spiritual  seed  which  had  been  scattered  over  Mr. 
Tulliver  had  apparently  been  destitute  of  any  corresponding 
provision,  and  had  slipped  oif  to  the  winds  again,  from  a  total 
absence  of  hooks. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   TORN    NEST    IS    PIERCED    BY    THE    THORNS. 

There  is  something  sustaining  in  the  very  agitation  that 
accompanies  the  first  shocks  of  trouble,  just  as  an  acute  pain 
is  often  a  stimulus,  and  produces  an  excitement  which  is  tran- 
sient strength.  It  is  in  the  slow,  changed  life  that  follows  — 
in  the  time  when  sorrow  has  become  stale,  and  has  no  longer 
an  emotive  intensit}'^  that  counteracts  its  pain  —  in  the  time 
when  day  follows  day  in  dull  unexpectant  sameness,  and  trial 
is  a  dreary  routine  ;  —  it  is  then  that  despair  threatens  ;  it  is 
then  that  the  peremptory  hunger  of  the  soul  is  felt,  and  eye 
and  ear  are  strained  after  some  unlearned  secret  of  our  exist- 
ence, which  shall  give  to  endurance  the  nature  of  satisfaction. 

This  time  of  utmost  need  was  come  to  Maggie,  with  her 
short  span  of  thirteen  years.  To  the  usual  precocity  of  the 
girl,  she  added  that  early  experience  of  struggle,  of  conflict 
between  the  inward  impulse  and  outward  fact,  which  is  the 
lot  of  every  imaginative  and  passionate  nature  ;  and  the  years 
since  she  hammered  the  nails  into  her  wooden  Fetish  among 
the  worm-eaten  shelves  of  the  attic,  had  been  filled  with  so 


THE   VALLEY   OF   HUMILIATION.  293 

eager  a  life  in  the  triple  world  of  Reality,  Books,  and  Waking 
Dreams,  that  Maggie  was  strangely  old  for  her  years  in  every- 
thing except  in  her  entire  want  of  that  prudence  and  aelf- 
command  which  were  the  qualities  that  made  Tom  manly  in 
the  midst  of  his  intellectual  boyishness.  And  now  her  lot  was 
beginning  to  have  a  still,  sad  monotony,  which  threw  her  more 
than  ever  on  her  inward  self.  Her  father  was  able  to  attend 
to  business  again,  his  affairs  were  settled,  and  he  was  acting 
as  Wakem's  manager  on  the  old  spot.  Tom  went  to  and  fro 
every  morning  and  evening,  and  became  more  and  more  silent 
in  the  short  intervals  at  home :  what  was  there  to  say  ?  One 
day  was  like  anothei',  and  Tom's  interest  in  life,  driven  back 
and  crushed  on  every  other  side,  was  concentrating  itself  into 
the  one  channel  of  ambitious  resistance  to  misfortune.  The 
peculiarities  of  his  father  and  mother  were  very  irksome  to 
him,  now  they  were  laid  bare  of  all  the  softening  accompani- 
ments of  an  easy  prosperous  home ;  for  Tom  had  very  clear 
prosaic  eyes,  not  apt  to  be  dimmed  by  mists  of  feeling  or  im- 
agination. Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver.  it  seemed,  would  never  recover 
her  old  self  —  her  placid  household  activity  :  how  could  she  ? 
The  objects  among  which  her  mmd  had  moved  complacently 
were  all  gone  —  all  the  little  hopes,  and  schemes,  and  specula- 
tions, all  the  pleasant  little  cares  about  her  treasures  which 
had  made  the  world  quite  comprehensible  to  her  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  since  she  had  made  her  first  purchase  of  the 
sugar-tongs,  had  been  suddenly  snatched  away  from  her,  and 
she  remained  bewildered  in  this  empty  life.  Why  that  should 
have  happened  to  her  which  had  not  happened  to  other  women, 
remained  an  insoluble  question  by  which  she  expressed  her 
perpetual  ruminating  comparison  of  the  past  with  the  present. 
It  was  piteous  to  see  the  comely  woman  getting  thinner  and 
more  worn  under  a  bodily  as  well  as  mental  restlessness, 
which  made  her  often  wander  about  the  empty  house  after 
her  work  was  done,  until  Maggie,  becoming  alarmed  about 
her,  would  seek  her,  and  bring  her  down  by  telling  her  how  it 
vexed  Tom  that  she  was  injuring  her  health  by  never  sitting 
down  and  resting  herself.  Yet  amidst  this  helpless  imbecility 
there  was  a  touching  trait  of  humble  self-devoting  maternity, 


294:  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

which  made  Maggie  feel  tenderly  towards  her  poor  mother 
amidst  all  the  little  wearing  griefs  caused  by  her  mental 
feebleness.  She  would  let  Maggie  do  none  of  the  work  that 
was  heaviest  and  most  soiling  to  the  hands,  and  was  quite 
peevish  Avhen  Maggie  attempted  to  relieve  her  from  her  grate- 
brushing  and  scouring :  "  Let  it  alone,  my  dear  ;  your  hands 
'ull  get  as  hard  as  hard/'  she  would  say  :  "  it 's  your  mother's 
place  to  do  that.  I  can't  do  the  sewing  —  my  eyes  fail  me." 
And  she  would  still  brush  and  carefully  tend  Maggie's  hair, 
which  she  had  become  reconciled  to,  in  spite  of  its  refusal  to 
curl,  now  it  was  so  long  and  massy.  Maggie  was  not  her  pet 
child,  and,  in  general,  would  have  been  much  better  if  she  had 
been  quite  different ;  yet  the  womanly  heart,  so  bruised  in  its 
small  personal  desires,  found  a  future  to  rest  on  in  the  life  of 
this  young  thing,  and  the  mother  pleased  herself  with  wearing 
out  her  own  hands  to  save  the  hands  that  had  so  much  more 
life  in  them. 

But  the  constant  presence  of  her  mother's  regretful  bewilder- 
ment was  less  painful  to  Maggie  than  that  of  her  father's  sullen 
incommunicative  depression.  As  long  as  the  paralysis  was 
upon  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  might  always  m  a  child- 
like condition  of  dependence  —  as  long  as  he  was  still  only  half 
awakened  to  his  trouble,  Maggie  had  felt  the  strong  tide  of 
pitying  love  almost  as  an  inspiration,  a  new  power,  that  would 
make  the  most  difficult  life  easy  for  his  sake  ;  but  now,  instead 
of  childlike  dependence  there  had  come  a  taciturn  hard  concen- 
tration of  purpose,  in  strange  contrast  with  his  old  vehement 
communicativeness  and  high  spirit ;  and  this  lasted  from  day 
to  day,  and  from  week  to  week,  the  dull  eye  never  brightening 
with  any  eagerness  or  any  joy.  It  is  something  cruelly  in- 
comprehensible to  youthful  natures,  this  sombre  sameness  in 
middle-aged  and  elderly  people,  whose  life  has  resulted  in 
disappointment  and  discontent,  to  whose  faces  a  smile  becomes 
so  strange  that  the  sad  lines  all  about  the  lips  and  brow  seem 
to  take  no  notice  of  it,  and  it  hurries  away  again  for  want  of 
a  welcome.  "  Why  will  they  not  kindle  up  and  be  glad  some- 
times ?  "  thinks  young  elasticity.  "It  would  be  so  easy  if 
they  only  liked  to  do  it."     And  these  leaden  clouds  that  neve? 


THE  VALLEY  OP  HUMILIATION.  295 

part  are  apt  to  create  impatience  even  in  the  filial  affection 
that  streams  forth  in  nothing  but  tenderness  and  pity  in  the 
time  of  more  obvious  affliction. 

Mr.  Tulliver  lingered  nowhere  away  from  home :  he  hurried 
away  from  market,  he  refused  all  invitations  to  stay  and  chat, 
as  in  old  times,  in  the  houses  where  he  called  on  business. 
He  could  not  be  reconciled  with  his  lot :  there  was  no  attitude 
in  which  his  pride  did  not  feel  its  bruises ;  and  in  all  behavior 
towards  him,  whether  kind  or  cold,  he  detected  an  allusion  to 
the  change  in  his  circumstances.  Even  the  days  on  which 
Wakem  came  to  ride  round  the  land  and  inquire  into  the  busi- 
ness, were  not  so  black  to  him  as  those  market-days  on  which 
he  had  met  several  creditors  who  had  accepted  a  composition 
from  him.  To  save  something  towards  the  repayment  of  those 
creditors,  was  the  object  towards  which  he  was  now  bending 
all  his  thoughts  and  efforts ;  and  under  the  influence  of  this 
all-compelling  demand  of  his  nature,  the  somewhat  profuse 
man,  who  hated  to  be  stinted  or  to  stint  any  one  else  in  his 
own  house,  was  gradually  metamorphosed  into  the  keen-eyed 
grudger  of  morsels.  Mrs.  Tulliver  could  not  economize  enough 
to  satisfy  him,  in  their  food  and  firing ;  and  he  would  eat  noth- 
ing himself  but  what  was  of  the  coarsest  quality.  Tom,  though 
depressed  and  strongly  repelled  by  his  father's  sullenness,  and 
the  dreariness  of  home,  entered  thoroughly  into  his  father's 
feelings  about  paying  the  creditors ;  and  the  poor  lad  brought 
his  first  quarter's  money,  with  a  delicious  sense  of  achieve- 
ment, and  gave  it  to  his  father  to  put  into  the  tin  box  which 
held  the  savings.  The  little  store  of  sovereigns  in  the  tin 
box  seemed  to  be  the  only  sight  that  brought  a  faint  beam  of 
pleasure  into  the  miller's  eyes  —  faint  and  transient,  for  it 
was  soon  dispelled  by  the  thought  that  the  time  would  be 
long  —  perhaps  longer  than  his  life— before  the  narrow  sav- 
ings would  remove  the  hateful  incubus  of  debt.  A  deficit  of 
more  than  five  hundred  pounds,  with  the  accumulating  in- 
terest, seemed  a  deep  pit  to  fill  with  the  savings  from  thirty 
shillings  a-week,  even  when  Tom's  probable  savings  were  to 
be  added.  On  this  one  point  there  was  entire  community  of 
feeling  in  the  four  widely  differing  beings  who  sat  round  the 


296  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

dying  fixe  of  sticks,  which  made  a  cheap  warmth  for  them  on 
the  verge  of  bed-time.  Mrs.  Tulliver  carried  the  proud  integ- 
rity of  the  Dodsons  in  her  blood,  and  had  been  brought  up  to 
think  that  to  wrong  people  of  their  money,  which  was  another 
phrase  for  debt,  was  a  sort  of  moral  pillor}- :  it  would  have 
been  wickedness,  to  her  mind,  to  have  run  counter  to  her  hus- 
band's desire  to  "do  the  right  thing,"  and  retrieve  his  name. 
She  had  a  confused  dreamy  notion  that,  if  the  creditors  were 
-all  paid,  her  plate  and  linen  ought  to  come  back  to  her ;  but 
she  had  an  inbred  perception  that  while  people  owed  money 
they  were  unable  to  pay,  they  could  n't  rightly  call  anything 
their  own.  She  murmured  a  little  that  Mr.  Tulliver  so  per- 
emptorily refused  to  receive  anything  in  repayment  from  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Moss ;  but  to  all  his  requirements  of  household  econ- 
omy she  was  submissive  to  the  point  of  denying  herself  the 
cheapest  indulgences  of  mere  flavor:  her  only  rebellion  was 
to  smuggle  into  the  kitchen  something  that  would  make  rather 
a  better  supper  than  usual  for  Tom. 

These  narrow  notions  about  debt,  held  by  the  old-fashioned 
Tullivers,  may  perhaps  excite  a  smile  on  the  faces  of  many 
readers  in  these  days  of  wide  commercial  views  and  wide 
philosophy,  according  to  which  everything  rights  itself  with- 
out any  trouble  of  ours :  the  fact  that  my  tradesman  is  out 
of  pocket  by  me,  is  to  be  looked  at  through  the  serene  cer- 
tainty that  somebody  else's  tradesman  is  in  pocket  by  some- 
body else ;  and  since  there  must  be  bad  debts  in  the  world, 
why,  it  is  mere  egoism  not  to  like  that  we  in  particular  should 
make  them  instead  of  our  fellow-citizens.  I  am  telling  the 
history  of  very  simple  people,  who  had  never  had  any  illumi- 
nating doubts  as  to  personal  integrity  and  honor. 

Under  all  this  grim  melancholy  and  narrowing  concentration 
of  desire,  Mr.  Tulliver  retained  the  feeling  towards  his  "  little 
wench"  which  made  her  presence  a  need  to  him,  though  it 
would  not  suffice  to  cheer  him.  She  was  still  the  desire  of  his 
eyes;  but  the  sweet  spring  of  fatherly  love  was  now  mingled 
with  bitterness,  like  everything  else.  When  Maggie  laid  down 
her  work  at  night,  it  was  her  habit  to  get  a  low  stool  and  sit 
by  her  father's  knee,  leaning  her  cheek  against  it.     How  she 


THE  VALLEY   OF  HUMILL4TI0N.  297 

wished  he  would  stroke  her  head,  or  give  some  sign  that  he 
was  soothed  by  the  sense  that  he  had  a  daughter  who  loved 
him !  But  now  she  got  no  answer  to  her  little  caresses,  either 
from  her  father  or  from  Tom  —  the  two  idols  of  her  life.  Tom 
was  weary  and  abstracted  in  the  short  intervals  when  he  was 
at  home,  and  her  father  was  bitterly  preoccupied  with  the 
thought  that  the  girl  was  growing  up  —  was  shooting  up  into 
a  woman ;  and  how  was  she  to  do  well  in  life  ?  She  had  a 
poor  chance  for  marrying,  down  in  the  world  as  they  were. 
And  he  hated  the  thought  of  her  marrying  poorly,  as  her  aunt 
Gritty  had  done  :  that  would  be  a  thing  to  make  him  turn  in 
his  grave  —  the  little  wench  so  pulled  down  by  children  and 
toil,  as  her  aunt  Moss  was.  When  uncultured  minds,  confined 
to  a  narrow  range  of  personal  experience,  are  under  the  pres- 
sure of  continued  misfortune,  their  inward  life  is  apt  to  become 
a  perpetually  repeated  round  of  sad  and  bitter  thoughts :  the 
same  words,  the  same  scenes  are  revolved  over  and  over  again, 
the  same  mood  accompanies  them  —  the  end  of  the  year  finds 
them  as  much  what  they  were  at  the  beginning  as  if  they 
were  machines  set  to  a  recurrent  series  of  movements. 

The  sameness  of  the  days  was  broken  by  few  visitors. 
Uncles  and  aunts  paid  only  short  visits  now :  of  course, 
they  could  not  stay  to  meals,  and  the  constraint  caused  by 
Mr.  Tulliver's  savage  silence,  which  seemed  to  add  to  the 
hollow  resonance  of  the  bare  uncarpeted  room  when  the 
aunts  were  talking,  heightened  the  unpleasantness  of  these 
family  visits  on  all  sides,  and  tended  to  make  them  rare.  As 
for  other  acquaintances  —  there  is  a  chill  air  surrounding  those 
who  are  down  in  the  world,  and  people  are  glad  to  get  away 
from  them,  as  from  a  cold  room :  human  beings,  mere  men 
and  women,  without  furniture,  without  anything  to  offer  you, 
who  have  ceased  to  count  as  anybody,  present  an  embarrassing 
negation  of  reasons  for  wishing  to  see  them,  or  of  subjects  on 
which  to  converse  with  them.  At  that  distant  day,  there  was 
a  dreary  isolation  in  the  civilized  Christian  society  of  these 
realms  for  families  that  had  dropped  below  their  original  level, 
unless  they  belonged  to  a  sectarian  church,  which  gets  some 
warmth  of  brotherhood  by  walling  in  the  sacred  fire. 


298  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A    VOICE    FROM    THE    PAST. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  chestnuts  were  coming  into  flower, 
Maggie  had  brought  her  chair  outside  the  front  door,  and  was 
seated  there  with  a  book  on  her  knees.  Her  dark  eyes  had 
wandered  from  the  book,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  be  enjoying 
the  sunshine  which  pierced  the  screen  of  jasmine  on  the  jjro- 
jecting  porch  at  her  right,  and  threw  leafy  shadows  on  her 
pale  round  cheek ;  they  seemed  rather  to  be  searching  for 
something  that  was  not  disclosed  by  the  sunshine.  It  had 
been  a  more  miserable  day  than  usual :  her  father,  after  a 
visit  of  Wakem's,  had  had  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  in  which  for 
some  trifling  fault  he  had  beaten  the  boy  who  served  in  the 
mill.  Once  before,  since  his  illness,  he  had  had  a  similar  par- 
oxysm, in  which  he  had  beaten  his  horse,  and  the  scene  had  left 
a  lasting  terror  in  Maggie's  mind.  The  thought  had  risen,  that 
some  time  or  other  he  might  beat  her  mother  if  she  happened  to 
speak  in  her  feeble  way  at  the  wrong  moment.  The  keenest  of 
all  dread  with  her  was,  lest  her  father  should  add  to  his  present 
misfortune  the  wretchedness  of  doing  something  irretrievably 
disgraceful.  The  battered  school-book  of  Tom's  which  she  held 
on  her  knees  could  give  her  no  fortitude  under  the  pressure  of 
that  dread,  and  again  and  again  her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears, 
as  they  wandered  vaguely,  seeing  neither  the  chestnut-trees, 
nor  the  distant  horizon,  but  only  future  scenes  of  home-sorrow. 

Suddenly  she  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  opening  gate 
and  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel.  It  was  not  Tom  who  was 
entering,  but  a  man  in  a  seal-skin  cap  and  a  blue  plush  waist- 
coat, carrying  a  pack  on  his  back,  and  followed  closely  by  a 
bull-terrier  of  brindled  coat  and  defiant  aspect. 

"  Oh,  Bob,  it 's  you !  "  said  Maggie,  starting  up  with  a  smile 
of  pleased  recognition,  for  there  had  been  no  abundance  of 
kind  acts  to  efface  the  recollection  of  Bob's  generosity  j  '*'  I  'm 
80  glad  to  see  you." 


THE   VALLEY   OF   HUMILIATION.  2U9 

''Thank  you,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  liftinp^  his  cap  and  showing  a 
delighted  face,  but  immediately  relieving  himself  of  some  ac- 
companying embarrassment  by  looking  down  at  his  dog,  and 
saying  in  a  tone  of  disgust,  '•  Get  out  wi'  you,  you  thunderiu' 
sawney ! " 

"  My  brother  is  not  at  home  yet.  Bob,"  said  Maggie  ;  "  he 
is  always  at  St.  Ogg's  in  the  daytime." 

"  Well,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  "  1  should  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Tom 

—  but  that  is  n't  just  what  I  'm  come  for  —  look  here  ! " 

Bob  was  in  the  act  of  depositing  his  pack  on  the  door-step, 
and  with  it  a  row  of  small  books  fastened  together  witli  string. 
Apparently,  however,  they  were  not  the  object  to  which  he 
wished  to  call  Maggie's  attention,  but  rather  something  which 
he  had  carried  under  his  arm,  wrapped  in  a  red  handkerchief. 

"  See  here ! "  he  said  again,  laying  the  red  parcel  on  the 
others  and  unfolding  it ;  "  you  won't  think  I  'm  a-makin'  too 
free,  Miss,  I  hope,  but  I  lighted  on  these  books,  and  I  thought 
they  might  make  up  to  you  a  bit  for  them  as  you  've  lost ;  for 
I  heared  you  speak  o'  picturs  —  an'  as  for  picturs,  look  here ! " 

The  opening  of  the  red  handkerchief  had  disclosed  a  super- 
annuated "Keepsake"  and  six  or  seven  numbers  of  a  "Portrait 
Gallery,"  in  royal  octavo ;  and  the  emphatic  request  to  look 
referred  to  a  portrait  of  George  the  Fourth  in  all  the  majesty 
of  his  depressed  cranium  and  voluminous  neckcloth. 

"There's  all  sorts  o'  genelmen  here,"  Bob  went  on,  turning 
over  the  leaves  with  some  excitement,  "  wi'  all  sorts  o'  noses 

—  an'  some  bald  an'  some  wi'  wigs  —  Parlament  genelmen, 
I  reckon.  An'  here,"  he  added,  opening  the  "'Keepsake," 
"  here 's  ladies  for  you,  some  wi'  curly  hair  and  some  wi'  smooth, 
an'  some  a-smiling  wi'  their  heads  o'  one  side,  an'  some  as  if 
they  was  goin'  to  cry  — look  here  — a-sittin'  on  the  ground  out 
o'  door,  dressed  like  the  ladies  I  'n  seen  get  out  o'  the  carriages 
at  the  balls  in  th'  Old  Hall  there.  My  eyes,  I  wonder  what 
the  chaps  wear  as  go  a-courtin'  'em !  I  sot  up  till  the  clock 
was  gone  twelve  last  night  a-lookin'  at  'era  —  I  did  —  till  they 
stared  at  me  out  o'  the  picturs  as  if  they  'd  know  when  I  spoke 
to  'em.  But,  lors  !  I  should  n't  know  what  to  say  to  'em. 
They  11  be  more  fittin'  company  for  you,  Miss  j  and  the  man 


300  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

at  fche  bookstall,  he  said  they  banged  iverything  for  picturs  — 
he  said  they  was  a  fust-rate  article," 

"  And  you  've  bought  them  for  me,  Bob  ?  "  said  Maggie, 
deeply  touched  by  this  simple  kindness.  "  How  very,  very 
good  of  you  !  But  I  'm  afraid  you  gave  a  great  deal  of  money 
for  them." 

"  Not  me  !  "  said  Bob.  "  I  'd  ha'  gev  three  times  the  money 
if  they  '11  make  up  to  you  a  bit  for  them  as  was  sold  away 
from  you.  Miss.  For  I  'n  niver  forgot  how  you  looked  when 
you  fretted  about  the  books  bein'  gone — it 's  stuck  by  me  as 
if  it  was  a  pictur  hingin'  before  me.  An'  when  I  see  'd  the 
book  open  upo'  the  stall,  wi'  the  lady  lookin'  out  of  it  wi'  eyes 
a  bit  like  your  'n  when  you  was  f rettiu'  —  you  '11  excuse  my 
takin'  the  liberty,  Miss  —  I  thought  I  'd  make  free  to  buy  it 
for  you,  an'  then  I  bought  the  books  full  o'  genelmen  to  match 
—  an'  then  '^  —  here  Bob  took  up  the  small  stringed  packet  of 
books  —  "I  thought  you  might  like  a  bit  more  print  as  well 
as  the  picturs,  an'  I  got  these  for  a  say-so  —  they  're  cram-full 
o'  print,  an'  I  thought  they  'd  do  no  harm  comin'  along  wi' 
these  bettermost  books.  An'  I  hope  you  won't  say  me  nay, 
an'  tell  me  as  you  won't  have  'em,  like  Mr.  Tom  did  wi'  the 
suvi-eigns." 

"No,  indeed.  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  "  I*m  very  thankful  to  you 
for  thinking  of  me,  and  being  so  good  to  me  and  Tom.  I  don't 
think  any  one  ever  did  such. a  kind  thing  for  me  before.  I 
have  n't  many  friends  who  care  for  me." 

"  Hev  a  dog,  Miss  I  —  they  're  better  friends  nor  any  Chris- 
tian," said  Bob,  laying  down  his  pack  again,  which  he  had 
taken  up  with  the  intention  of  hurrying  away;  for  he  felt 
considerable  shyness  in  talking  to  a  young  lass  like  Maggie, 
though,  as  he  usually  said  of  himself,  "his  tongue  overrun 
him  "  when  he  began  to  speak.  "  I  can't  give  you  Mumps, 
'cause  he  'd  break  his  heart  to  go  away  from  me  —  eh,  Mumps, 
what  do  you  say,  you  riff-raff  ?  "  —  (Mumps  declined  to  express 
himself  more  diffusely  than  by  a  single  affirmative  movement 
of  his  tail.)     "  But  I  'd  get  you  a  pup.  Miss,  an'  welcome." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Bob.  We  have  a  yard  dog,  and  I  may  n't 
keep  a  dog  of  my  own." 


THE  VALLEY   OF  HUMILU.TION.  301 

"  Eh,  that 's  a  pity  :  else  there 's  a  pup  —  if  you  did  n't  mind 
about  it  not  being  thorough-bred :  its  mother  acts  in  the  Punch 
show  —  an  uncommon  sensible  bitch  —  she  means  more  sense 
wi'  her  bark  nor  half  the  chaps  can  put  into  their  talk  from 
breakfast  to  sundown.  There's  one  chap  carries  pots,  —  a 
poor  low  trade  as  any  on  the  road,  —  he  says,  '  Why,  Toby 's 
nought  but  a  mongrel  —  there 's  nought  to  look  at  in  her.' 
But  I  says  to  him,  '  Why,  what  are  you  yoursen  but  a  mongrel  ? 
There  was  n't  much  pickin'  o'  your  feyther  an'  mother,  to  look 
at  you.'  Not  but  what  I  like  a  bit  o'  breed  myself,  but  I  can't 
abide  to  see  one  cur  grinnin'  at  another.  I  wish  you  good- 
evenin',  Miss,"  added  Bob,  abruptly  taking  up  his  pack  again, 
under  the  consciousness  that  his  tongue  was  acting  in  an  un- 
disciplined manner. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  the  evening  some  time,  and  see  my 
brother.  Bob  ?  "  said  Maggie. 

"Yes,  Miss,  thank  you  —  another  time.  You'll  give  my 
duty  to  him,  if  you  please.  Eh,  he 's  a  fine  growed  chap,  Mr, 
Tom  is ;  he  took  to  growin'  i'  the  legs,  an'  /  did  n't." 

The  pack  was  down  again,  now  —  the  hook  of  the  stick  hav- 
ing somehow  gone  wrong. 

"  You  don't  call  Mumps  a  cur,  I  suppose  ? "  said  Maggie, 
divining  that  any  interest  she  showed  in  Mumps  would  be 
gratifying  to  his  master. 

"No,  Miss,  a  fine  way  off  that,"  said  Bob,  with  a  pitying 
smile  ;  "  Mumps  is  as  fine  a  cross  as  you  '11  see  anywhere  along 
the  Floss,  an'  I  'n  been  up  it  wi'  the  barge  times  enow.  Why, 
the  gentry  stops  to  look  at  him  ;  but  you  won't  catch  Mumps 
a-looking  at  the  gentry  much  —  he  minds  his  own  business,  he 
does." 

The  expression  of  Mumps's  face,  which  seemed  to  be  toler- 
ating the  superfluous  existence  of  objects  in  general,  was 
strongly  confirmatory  of  this  high  praise. 

"  He  looks  dreadfully  surly,"  said  Maggie.  "  Would  he  let 
me  pat  him  ?  " 

"  Ay,  that  would  he,  and  thank  you.  He  knows  his  com- 
pany, Mumps  does.  He  isn't  a  dog  as  'ull  be  caught  wi' 
gingerbread :  he  'd  smell  a  thief  a  good  deal  stronger  nor  the 


302  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

gingerbread  —  he  would.  Lors,  I  talk  to  him  by  th'  hour  to- 
gether, when  I  'm  walking  i'  lone  places,  and  if  I  'n  done  a  bit 
o'  mischief,  I  allays  tell  him.  I  'n  got  no  secrets  but  what 
Mumps  knows  'em.     He  knows  about  my  big  thumb,  he  does." 

"  Your  big  thumb  —  what 's  that,  Bob  ?  "  said  Maggie. 

"That's  what  it  is,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  quickly,  exhibiting  a 
singularly  broad  specimen  of  that  difference  between  the  man 
and  the  monkey.  ''  It  tells  i'  Qieasuring  out  the  flannel,  you 
see.  I  carry  flannel,  'cause  it 's  light  for  my  pack,  an'  it 's 
dear  stuff,  you  see,  so  a  big  thumb  tells.  I  clap  my  thumb 
at  the  end  o'  the  yard  and  cut  o'  the  hither  side  of  it,  and  the 
old  women  are  n't  up  to  't." 

"But,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  looking  serious,  "  that 's  cheating ; 
I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"Don't  you,  Miss?"  said  Bob,  regretfully.  "Then  I'm 
sorry  I  said  it.  But  I'm  so  used  to  talking  to  Mumps,  an'  he 
does  n't  mind  a  bit  o'  cheating,  when  it 's  them  skinflint  women, 
as  haggle  an'  haggle,  an'  'ud  like  to  get  their  flannel  for  noth- 
ing, an'  'ud  niver  ask  theirselves  how  I  got  my  dinner  out  on 't. 
I  niver  cheat  anybody  as  does  n't  want  to  cheat  me.  Miss  — 
lors,  I  'm  a  honest  chap,  I  am  ;  only  I  must  hev  a  bit  o'  sport, 
an'  now  I  don't  go  wi'  th'  ferrets,  I  'n  got  no  varmint  to  come 
over  but  them  haggling  women.  I  wish  you  good-evening. 
Miss." 

"  Good-by,  Bob.  Thank  you  very  much  for  bringing  me  the 
books.     And  come  again  to  see  Tom." 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  moving  on  a  few  steps  ;  then  turn- 
ing half  round  he  said,  "  I  '11  leave  off  that  trick  wi'  my  big 
thumb,  if  you  don't  think  well  on  me  for  it,  Miss  —  but  it  'ud 
be  a  pity,  it  would.  I  could  n't  find  another  trick  so  good  — 
an'  what  'ud  be  the  use  o'  havin'  a  big  thumb  ?  It  might  as 
well  ha'  been  narrow." 

Maggie,  thus  exalted  into  Bob's  directing  Madonna,  laughed 
in  spite  of  herself;  at  which  her  worshipper's  blue  eyes 
twinkled  too,  and  under  these  favoring  auspices  he  touched 
his  cap  and  walked  away. 

The  days  of  chivalry  are  not  gone,  notwithstanding  Burke's 
grand  dirge  over  them  ;  they  live  still  in  that  far-off  worship 


THE   VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  303 

paid  by  many  a  youth  and  man  to  the  woman  of  whom  he 
never  dreams  that  he  shall  touch  so  much  as  her  little  finger 
or  the  hem  of  her  robe.  Bob,  with  the  pack  on  his  back,  had 
.as  respectful  an  adoration  for  this  dark-eyed  maiden  as  if  he 
had  been  a  kuight  in  armor  calling  aloud  on  her  name  as  he 
pricked  on  to  the  fight. 

That  gleam  of  merriment  soon  died  away  from  Maggie's  face, 
and  perhaps  only  made  the  returning  gloom  deeper  by  con- 
trast. She  was  too  dispirited  even  to  like  answering  questions 
about  Bob's  present  of  books,  and  she  carried  them  away  to 
her  bedroom,  laying  them  down  there  and  seating  herself  on 
her  one  stool,  without  caring  to  look  at  them  just  yet.  She 
leaned  her  cheek  against  the  window-frame,  and  thought  that 
the  light-hearted  Bob  had  a  lot  much  happier  than  hers. 

Maggie's  sense  of  loneliness,  and  utter  privation  of  joy,  had 
deepened  with  the  brightness  of  advancing  spring.  All  the 
favorite  outdoor  nooks  about  home,  which  seemed  to  have 
done  their  part  with  her  parents  in  nurturing  and  cherishing 
her,  were  now  mixed  up  with  the  home-sadness,  and  gathered 
no  smile  from  the  sunshine.  Every  affection,  every  delight 
the  poor  child  had  had,  was  like  an  aching  nerve  to  her. 
There  was  no  music  for  her  any  more  —  no  piano,  no  harmon- 
ized voices,  no  delicious  stringed  instruments,  with  their  pas- 
sionate cries  of  imprisoned  spirits  sending  a  strange  vibration 
through  her  frame.  And  of  all  her  school-life  there  was  noth- 
ing left  her  now  but  her  little  collection  of  school-books,  which 
she  turned  over  with  a  sickening  sense  that  she  knew  them  all, 
and  they  were  all  barren  of  comfort.  Even  at  school  she  had 
often  wished  for  books  with  more  in  them :  everything  she 
learned  there  seemed  like  the  ends  of  long  threads  that 
snapped  immediately.  And  now  —  without  the  indirect  charm 
of  school-emulation  —  Telemaque  was  mere  bran  ;  so  were  the 
hard  dry  questions  on  Christian  Doctrine :  there  was  no  flavor 
in  them  —  no  strength.  Sometimes  Maggie  thought  she  could 
have  been  contented  with  absorbing  fancies ;  if  she  could  have 
had  all  Scott's  novels  and  all  Byron's  poems  !  —  then,  perhaps, 
she  might  have  found  happiness  enough  to  dull  her  sensibility 
to  her  actual  daily  life.     And  yet  .  .  .  they  were  hardly  what 


304  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

she  wanted.  She  could  make  dream-worlds  of  her  own  —  bi  b 
no  dream-world  would  satisfy  her  now.  She  wanted  some  ex- 
planation of  this  hard,  real  life :  the  unhappy-looking  father, 
seated  at  the  dull  breakfast-table;  the  childish,  bewildered 
mother ;  the  little  sordid  tasks  that  filled  the  hours,  or  the 
more  oppressive  emptiness  of  weary,  joyless  leisure  ;  the  need 
of  some  tender,  demonstrative  love ;  the  cruel  sense  that  Tom 
did  n't  mind  what  she  thought  or  felt,  and  that  they  were  no 
longer  playfellows  together;  the  privation  of  all  pleasant 
things  that  had  come  to  her  more  than  to  others :  she  wanted 
some  key  that  would  enable  her  to  understand,  and,  in  under- 
standing, endure,  the  heavy  weight  that  had  fallen  on  her 
young  heart.  If  she  had  been  taught  "  real  learning  and  wis- 
dom, such  as  great  men  knew,"  she  thought  she  should  have 
held  the  secrets  of  life ;  if  she  had  only  books,  that  she  might 
learn  for  herself  what  wise  men  knew  !  Saints  and  martyrs 
had  never  interested  Maggie  so  much  as  sages  and  poets.  She 
knew  little  of  saints  and  martyrs,  and  had  gathered,  as  a  gen- 
eral result  of  her  teaching,  that  they  were  a  temporary  provi- 
sion against  the  spread  of  Catholicism,  and  had  all  died  at 
Smithfield. 

In  one  of  these  meditations  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had 
forgotten  Tom's  school-books,  which  had  been  sent  home  in 
his  trunk.  But  she  found  the  stock  unaccountably  shrunk 
down  to  the  few  old  ones  which  had  been  well  thuir^bed  —  the 
Latin  Dictionary  and  Grammar,  a  Delectus,  a  torn  Eutropius, 
the  well-worn  Virgil,  Aldrich's  Logic,  and  the  exasperating 
Euclid.  Still,  Latin,  Euclid,  and  Logic  would  surely  be  a  con- 
siderable step  in  masculine  wisdom  —  in  that  knowledge  which 
made  men  contented,  and  even  glad  to  live.  Fot  that  the 
yearning  for  effectual  wisdom  was  quite  unmixed  •  a  certain 
mirage  would  now  and  then  rise  on  the  desert  of  the  future, 
in  which  she  seemed  to  see  herself  honored  for  her  surprising 
attainments.  And  so  the  poor  child,  with  her  soul'."  hunger 
and  her  illusions  of  self-flattery,  began  to  nibble  at  thi'?  thick- 
rinded  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  filling  her  vacant  hours 
with  Latin,  geometry,  and  the  forms  of  the  syllogism,  and 
feeling  a  gleam  of  triumph  now  and  then  that  her  understand- 


THE  VALLEY   OF   HUMILL^TION.  305 

ing  was  quite  equal  to  these  peculiarly  masculine  studies.  For 
a  week  or  two  she  went  on  resolutely  enough,  though  with  an 
occasional  sinking  of  heart,  as  if  she  had  set  out  toward  the 
Promised  Land  alone,  and  found  it  a  thirsty,  trackless,  uncer- 
tain journey.  In  the  severity  of  her  early  resolution,  she 
would  take  Aldrich  out  into  the  fields,  and  then  look  off  her 
book  towards  the  sky,  where  the  lark  was  twinkling,  or  to  the 
reeds  and  bushes  by  the  river,  from  which  the  water-fowl  rus- 
tled forth  on  its  anxious,  awkward  flight  —  with  a  startled  sense 
that  the  relation  between  Aldrich  and  this  living  world  was 
extremely  remote  for  her.  The  discouragement  deepened  as 
the  days  went  on,  and  the  eager  heart  gained  faster  and  faster 
on  the  patient  mind.  Somehow,  when  she  sat  at  the  window 
with  her  book,  her  eyes  ivould  fix  themselves  blankly  on  the 
outdoor  sunshine ;  then  they  would  fill  with  tears,  and  some- 
times, if  her  mother  was  not  in  the  room,  the  studies  would 
all  end  in  sobbing.  She  rebelled  against  her  lot,  she  fainted 
under  its  loneliness,  and  fits  even  of  anger  and  hatred  towards 
her  father  and  mother,  who  were  so  unlike  what  she  would 
have  them  to  be  —  towards  Tom,  who  checked  her,  and  met 
her  thought  or  feeling  always  by  some  thwarting  difference  — 
would  flow  out  over  her  affections  and  conscience  like  a  lava 
stream,  and  frighten  her  with  a  sense  that  it  was  not  difficult 
for  her  to  become  a  demon.  Then  her  brain  would  be  busy 
with  wild  romances  of  a  flight  from  home  in  search  of  some- 
thing less  sordid  and  dreary  :  she  would  go  to  some  great  man 
—  Walter  Scott,  perhaps  —  and  tell  him  how  wretched  and 
how  clever  she  was,  and  he  would  surely  do  something  for  her. 
But,  in  the  middle  of  her  vision,  her  father  would  perhaps 
enter  the  room  for  the  evening,  and,  surprised  that  she  sat 
still  without  noticing  him,  would  say  complainingly,  "  Come, 
am  I  to  fetch  my  slippers  myself  ? "  The  voice  pierced 
through  Maggie  like  a  sword :  there  was  another  sadness  be- 
sides her  own,  and  she  had  been  thinking  of  turning  her  back 
on  it  and  forsaking  it. 

This  afternoon,  the  sight  of  Bob's  cheerful  freckled  face  had 
given  her   discontent  a  new  direction.     She   thought  it  was 
part  of  the  hardship  of  her  life  that  there  was  laid  upon  her 
^OL.  II.  20 


806  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

the  burthen  of  larger  wants  than  others  seemed  to  feel  —  that 
she  had  to  endure  this  wide  hopeless  yearning  for  that  some- 
thing, whatever  it  was,  that  was  greatest  and  best  on  this 
earth.  She  wished  she  could  have  been  like  Bob,  with  his 
easily  satisfied  ignorance,  or  like  Tom,  who  had  something  to 
do  on  which  he  could  fix  his  mind  with  a  steady  purpose,  and 
disregard  everything  else.  Poor  child  !  as  she  leaned  her  head 
against  the  window-frame,  with  her  hands  clasped  tighter  and 
tighter,  and  her  foot  beating  the  ground,  she  was  as  lonely  in 
her  trouble  as  if  she  had  been  the  only  girl  in  the  civilized 
world  of  that  day  who  had  come  out  of  her  school-life  with  a 
soul  untrained  for  inevitable  struggles  —  with  no  other  part 
of  her  inherited  share  in  the  hard-won  treasures  of  thought, 
which  generations  of  painful  toil  have  laid  up  for  the  race  of 
men,  than  shreds  and  patches  of  feeble  literature  and  false 
history  — with  much  futile  information  about  Saxon  and  other 
kings  of  doubtful  example  —  but  unhappily  quite  without  that 
knowledge  of  the  irreversible  laws  within  and  without  her, 
which,  governing  the  habits,  becomes  morality,  and,  develop- 
ing the  feelings  of  submission  and  dependence,  becomes  reli- 
gion :  —  as  lonely  in  her  trouble  as  if  every  other  girl  besides 
herself  had  been  cherished  and  watched  over  by  elder  minds, 
not  forgetful  of  their  own  early  time,  when  need  was  keen  and 
impulse  strong. 

At  last  Maggie's  eyes  glanced  down  on  the  books  that  lay 
on  the  window-shelf,  and  she  half  forsook  her  reverie  to  turn 
over  listlessly  the  leaves  of  the  "  Portrait  Gallery,"  but  she 
soon  pushed  this  aside  to  examine  the  little  row  of  books  tied 
together  with  string.  "Beauties  of  the  Spectator,''  "Ras- 
selas,"  "  Economy  of  Human  Life,"  "  Gregory's  Letters  "  — 
she  knew  the  sort  of  matter  that  was  inside  all  these:  the 
"  Christian  Year  "  —  that  seemed  to  be  a  hymn-book,  and  she 
laid  it  down  again  ;  but  Thomas  a  Kempis  ?  —  the  name  had 
come  across  her  in  her  reading,  and  she  felt  the  satisfaction, 
which  every  one  knows,  of  getting  some  ideas  to  attach  to  a 
name  that  strays  solitary  in  the  memory.  She  took  up  the 
little,  old,  clumsy  book  with  some  curiosity :  it  had  the  cor- 
ners turned  down  in  many  places,  and  some  hand,  now  forever 


THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  807 

quiet,  had  made  at  certaiu  passages  strong  peri-aud-iuk  marks, 
long  since  browned  by  time.  Maggie  turned  from  leaf  to  leaf, 
and  read  where  the  quiet  hand  pointed  ..."  Know  that  the 
love  of  thyself  doth  hurt  thee  more  than  anything  in  the 
world.  ...  If  thou  seekest  this  or  that,  and  wouldst  be  here 
or  there  to  enjoy  thy  own  will  and  pleasure,  thou  shalt  never 
be  quiet  nor  free  from  care :  for  in  everything  somewhat  will 
be  wanting,  and  in  every  place  there  will  be  some  that  will 
cross  thee.  .  .  .  Both  above  and  below,  which  way  soever 
thou  dost  turn  thee,  everywhere  thou  shalt  find  the  Cross  : 
and  everywhere  of  necessity  thou  must  have  patience,  if  thou 
wilt  have  inward  peace,  and  enjoy  an  everlasting  crown.  .  .  . 
If  thou  desire  to  mount  unto  this  height,  thou  mast  set  out 
courageously,  and  lay  the  axe  to  the  root,  that  thou  mayest 
pluck  up  and  destroy  that  hidden  inordinate  inclination  to 
thyself,  and  unto  all  private  and  earthly  good.  On  this  sin, 
that  a  man  inordinately  loveth  himself,  almost  all  dependeth, 
whatsoever  is  thoroughly  to  be  overcome ;  which  evil  being 
once  overcome  and  subdued,  there  will  presently  ensue  great 
peace  and  tranquillity.  ...  It  is  but  little  thou  sufferest  in 
comparison  of  them  that  have  suffered  so  much,  were  so 
strongly  tempted,  so  grievously  afflicted,  so  many  ways  tried 
and  exercised.  Thou  oughtest  therefore  to  call  to  mind  the 
more  heavy  sufferings  of  others,  that  thou  mayest  the  easier 
bear  thy  little  adversities.  And  if  they  seem  not  little  unto 
thee,  beware  lest  thy  impatience  be  the  cause  thereof.  .  .  . 
Blessed  are  those  ears  that  receive  the  whispers  of  the  di- 
vine voice,  and  listen  not  to  the  whisperings  of  the  world. 
Blessed  are  those  ears  which  hearken  not  unto  the  voice  which 
soundeth  outwardly,  but  unto  the  Truth,  which  teacheth 
inwardly  —  " 

A  strange  thrill  of  awe  passed  through  Maggie  while  she  read, 
as  if  she  had  been  wakened  in  the  night  by  a  strain  of  solemn 
music,  telling  of  beings  whose  souls  had  been  astir  while  hers 
was  in  stupor.  She  went  on  from  one  brown  mark  to  another, 
where  the  quiet  hand  seemed  to  point,  hardly  conscious  that 
she  was  reading  —  seeming  rather  to  listen  while  a  low  voice 
said  — 


308  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  Why  dost  thou  here  gaze  about,  since  this  is  not  the  place 
of  thy  rest  ?  In  heaven  ought  to  be  thy  dwelling,  and  all 
earthly  things  are  to  be  looked  on  as  they  forward  thy  journey 
thither.  All  things  pass  away,  and  thou  together  with  them. 
Beware  thou  cleave  not  unto  them,  lest  thou  be  entangled  and 
perish.  ...  If  a  man  should  give  all  his  substance,  yet  it  is 
as  nothing.  And  if  he  should  do  great  penances,  yet  are  they 
but  little.  And  if  he  should  attain  to  all  knowledge,  he  is  yet 
far  off.  And  if  he  should  be  of  great  virtue,  and  very  fervent 
devotion,  yet  is  there  much  wanting  ;  to  wit,  one  thing,  which 
is  most  necessary  for  him.  What  is  that  ?  That  having  left 
all,  he  leave  himself,  and  go  wholly  out  of  himself,  and  retain 
nothing  of  self-love.  ...  I  have  often  said  unto  thee,  and 
now  again  I  say  the  same,  Forsake  thyself,  resign  thyself,  and 
thou  shalt  enjoy  much  inward  peace.  .  .  .  Then  shall  all  vain 
imaginations,  evil  perturbations,  and  superfluous  cares  fly  away ; 
then  shall  immoderate  fear  leave  thee,  and  inordinate  love 
shall  die." 

Maggie  drew  a  long  breath  and  pushed  her  heavy  hair  back, 
as  if  to  see  a  sudden  vision  more  clearly.  Here,  then,  was 
a  secret  of  life  that  would  enable  her  to  renounce  all  other 
secrets  —  here  was  a  sublime  height  to  be  reached  without  the 
help  of  outward  things  —  here  was  insight,  and  strength,  and 
conquest,  to  be  won  by  means  entirely  within  her  own  soul, 
where  a  supreme  Teacher  was  waiting  to  be  heard.  It  flashed 
through  her  like  the  suddenly  apprehended  solution  of  a  prob- 
lem, that  all  the  miseries  of  her  young  life  had  come  from 
fixing  her  heart  on  her  own  pleasure,  as  if  that  were  the  cen- 
tral necessity  of  the  universe  ;  and  for  the  first  time  she  saw 
the  possibility  of  shifting  the  position  from  which  she  looked 
at  the  gratification  of  her  own  desires  —  of  taking  her  stand 
out  of  herself,  and  looking  at  her  own  life  as  an  insignificant 
part  of  a  divinely  guided  whole.  She  read  on  and  on  in  the 
old  book,  devouring  eagerly  the  dialogues  with  the  invisible 
Teacher,  the  pattern  of  sorrow,  the  source  of  all  strength ; 
returning  to  it  after  she  had  been  called  away,  and  reading  till 
the  sun  went  down  behind  the  willows.  With  all  the  hurry  of 
an  imagination  that  could  never  rest  in  the  present,  she  sat  in 


THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  309 

the  deepening  twilight  forming  plans  of  self-humiliation  and 
entire  devotedness ;  and,  in  the  ardor  of  first  discovery,  re. 
nunciation  seemed  to  her  the  entrance  into  that  satisfaction 
which  she  had  so  long  been  craving  in  vain.  She  had  not 
perceived  —  how  could  she  until  she  had  lived  hmger  ?  —  the 
inmost  truth  of  the  old  monk's  outpourings,  that  renunciation 
remains  sorrow,  though  a  sorrow  borne  willingly.  Maggie  was 
still  panting  for  happiness,  and  was  in  ecstasy  because  she  had 
found  the  key  to  it.  She  knew  nothing  of  doctrines  and  sys- 
tems —  of  mysticism  or  quietism  ;  but  this  voice  out  of  the 
far-off  middle  ages  was  the  direct  communication  of  a  human 
soul's  belief  and  experience,  and  came  to  Maggie  as  an  unques- 
tioned message. 

I  suppose  that  is  the  reason  why  the  small  old-fashioned 
book,  for  which  you  need  only  pay  sixpence  at  a  book-stall, 
works  miracles  to  this  day,  turning  bitter  waters  into  sweet- 
ness :  while  expensive  sermons  and  treatises,  newly  issued, 
leave  all  things  as  they  were  before.  It  was  written  down  by 
a  hand  that  waited  for  the  heart's  prompting ;  it  is  the  chroni- 
cle of  a  solitary,  hidden  anguish,  struggle,  trust  and  triumph 
—  not  written  on  velvet  cushions  to  teach  endurance  to  those 
who  are  treading  with  bleeding  feet  on  the  stones.  And  so  it 
remains  to  all  time  a  lasting  record  of  human  needs  and  human 
consolations :  the  voice  of  a  brother  who,  ages  ago,  felt  and 
suffered  and  renounced  —  in  the  cloister,  perhaps,  with  serge 
gown  and  tonsured  head,  with  much  chanting  and  long  fasts, 
and  with  a  fashion  of  speech  different  from  ours  —  l)ut  un- 
der the  same  silent  far-off  heavens,  and  with  the  same  passion- 
ate desires,  the  same  strivings,  the  same  failures,  the  same 
weariness. 

In  writing  the  history  of  unfashionable  families,  one  is  apt 
to  fall  into  a  tone  of  emphasis  which  is  very  far  from  being 
the  tone  of  good  society,  where  principles  and  beliefs  are  not 
only  of  an  extremely  moderate  kind,  but  are  always  presup- 
posed, no  subjects  being  eligible  but  such  as  can  be  touched 
with  a  light  and  graceful  irony.  But  then,  good  society  has 
its  claret  and  its  velvet  carpets,  its  dinner-engagements  six 
weeks  deep,  its  opera  and  its  faery  ball-rooms  ;  rides  olf  its 


310  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

ennui  on  thorough-bred  horses,  lounges  at  the  club,  has  to  keep 
clear  of  crinoline  vortices,  gets  its  science  done  by  Faraday,  and 
its  religion  by  the  superior  clergy  who  are  to  be  met  in  the 
best  houses :  how  should  it  have  time  or  need  for  belief  and 
emphasis  ?  But  good  society,  floated  on  gossamer  wings  of 
light  irony,  is  of  very  expensive  production ;  requiring  nothing 
less  than  a  wide  and  arduous  national  life  condensed  in  unfra- 
grant  deafening  factories,  cramping  itself  in  mines,  sweating  afc 
furnaces,  grinding,  hammering,  weaving  under  more  or  less  op- 
pression of  carbonic  acid  —  or  else,  spread  over  sheepwalks,  and 
scattered  in  lonely  houses  and  huts  on  the  clayey  or  chalky 
cornlands,  where  the  rainy  days  look  dreary.  This  wide  na- 
tional life  is  based  entirely  on  emphasis  —  the  emphasis  of  want, 
which  urges  it  into  all  the  activities  necessary  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  good  society  and  light  irony  :  it  spends  its  heavy  years 
often  in  a  chill,  uncarpeted  fashion,  amidst  family  discord  unsoft- 
ened  by  long  corridors.  Under  such  circumstances,  there  are 
many  among  its  myriads  of  souls  who  have  absolutely  needed 
an  emphatic  belief  :  life  in  this  unpleasurable  shape  demand- 
ing some  solution  even  to  unspeculative  minds ;  just  as  you 
inquire  into  the  stuffing  of  your  couch  when  anything  galls 
you  there,  whereas  eider-down  and  perfect  French  springs  ex- 
cite no  question.  Some  have  an  emphatic  belief  in  alcohol, 
and  seek  their  ekstasis  or  outside  standing-ground  in  gin ;  but 
the  rest  require  something  that  good  society  calls  "enthusi- 
asm," something  that  will  present  motives  in  an  entire  absence 
of  high  prizes,  something  that  will  give  patience  and  feed 
human  love  when  the  limbs  ache  with  weariness,  and  human 
looks  are  hard  upon  us  —  something,  clearly,  that  lies  outside 
personal  desires,  that  includes  resignation  for  ourselves  and 
active  love  for  what  is  not  ourselves.  Now  and  then,  that 
sort  of  enthusiasm  finds  a  far-echoing  voice  that  comes  from 
an  experience  springing  out  of  the  deepest  need.  And  it  was 
by  being  brought  within  the  long  lingering  vibrations  of  such 
a  voice  that  Maggie,  with  her  girl's  face  and  unnoted  sorrows, 
found  an  effort  and  a  hope  that  helped  her  through  years  of 
loneliness,  making  out  a  faith  for  herself  without  the  aid  of 
established  authorities  and  appointed  guides  —  for  they  were 


THE  VALLEY  OP  HUMILIATION.  311 

not  at  baud,  and  her  need  was  pressing.  From  what  you  know 
of  her,  you  will  not  be  surprised  that  she  threw  some  exag- 
geration and  wilfulness,  some  pride  and  impetuosity,  even 
into  her  self-renunciation :  her  own  life  was  still  a  drama  for 
her,  in  which  she  demanded  of  herself  that  her  part  should  be 
played  with  intensity.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  she  often 
lost  the  spirit  of  humility  by  being  excessive  in  the  outward 
act ;  she  often  strove  after  too  high  a  flight,  and  came  down 
with  her  poor  little  half-fledged  wings  dabbled  in  the  mud.  For 
example,  she  not  only  determined  to  work  at  plain  sewing, 
that  she  might  contribute  something  towards  the  fund  in  the 
tin  box,  but  she  went,  in  the  first  instance,  in  her  zeal  of  self- 
mortification,  to  ask  for  it  at  a  linen-shop  in  St.  Ogg's,  instead 
of  getting  it  in  a  more  quiet  and  indirect  way ;  and  could  see 
nothing  but  what  was  entirely  wrong  and  unkind,  nay,  perse- 
outing,  in  Tom's  reproof  of  her  for  this  unnecessary  act.  "  I 
don't  like  my  sister  to  do  such  things,"  said  Tom  ;  "  Vll  take 
care  that  the  debts  are  paid,  without  your  lowering  yourself  in 
that  way."  Surely  there  was  some  tenderness  and  bravery 
mingled  with  the  w^orldliness  and  self-assertion  of  that  little 
speech ;  but  Maggie  held  it  as  dross,  overlooking  the  grains  of 
gold,  and  took  Tom's  rebuke  as  one  of  her  outward  crosses. 
Tom  was  very  hard  to  her,  she  used  to  think,  in  her  long 
night-watchiugs  —  to  her  who  had  always  loved  him  so  ;  and 
the<n  she  strove  to  be  contented  with  that  hardness,  and  to 
require  nothing.  That  is  the  path  we  all  like  when  we  set 
out  on  our  abandonment  of  egoism  —  the  path  of  martyrdom 
and  endurance,  where  the  palm-branches  grow,  rather  than  the 
steep  highway  of  tolerance,  just  allowance,  and  self-blame, 
where  there  are  no  leafy  honors  to  be  gathered  and  worn. 

The  old  books,  Virgil,  Euclid,  and  Aldrich  —  that  wrinkled 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  —  had  been  all  laid  by;  for 
Maggie  had  turned  her  back  on  the  vain  ambition  to  share  the 
thoughts  of  the  wise.  In  her  first  ardor  she  flung  away  the 
books  Avith  a  sort  of  triumph  that  she  had  risen  above  the 
need  of  them ;  and  if  they  had  been  her  own,  she  would  have 
burned  them,  believing  that  she  would  never  repent.  She 
read  so  eagerly  and  constantly  in  her  three  books,  the  Eibie.. 


312  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

Thomas  k  Kempis,  aud  the  "  Christian  Year  "  (n©  longer  re- 
jected as  a  "  hymn-book  "),  that  they  filled  her  mind  with  a 
continual  stream  of  rhythmic  memories ;  and  she  was  too 
ardently  learning  to  see  all  nature  and  life  in  the  light  of  her 
new  faith,  to  need  any  other  material  for  her  mind  to  work 
on,  as  she  sat  with  her  well-plied  needle,  making  shirts  and 
other  complicated  stitchings,  falsely  called  "plain"  —  by  no 
means  plain  to  Maggie,  since  wristband  and  sleeve  and  the 
like  had  a  capability  of  being  sewed  in  wrong  side  outwards 
in  moments  of  mental  wandering. 

Hanging  diligently  over  her  sewing,  Maggie  was  a  sight  any 
one  might  have  been  pleased  to  look  at.  That  new  inward  life 
of  hers,  notwithstanding  some  volcanic  upheavings  of  im- 
prisoned passions,  yet  shone  out  in  her  face  with  a  tender 
soft  light  that  mingled  itself  as  added  loveliness  with  the 
gradually  enriched  color  and  outline  of  her  blossoming  youth. 
Her  mother  felt  the  change  m  her  with  a  sort  of  puzzled 
wonder  that  Maggie  should  be  "  growing  up  so  good ,  "  it  was 
amazing  that  this  once  "  contrairy  "  child  was  become  so  sub- 
missive, so  backward  to  assert  her  own  will.  Maggie  used  to 
look  up  from  her  work  and  find  her  mother's  eyes  fixed  upon 
her :  they  were  watching  and  waiting  for  the  large  young 
glance,  as  if  her  elder  frame  got  some  needful  warmth  from 
it.  The  mother  was  getting  fond  of  her  tall,  brown  girl,  the 
only  bit  of  furniture  now  on  which  she  could  bestow  her  anx- 
iety and  pride  ;  and  Maggie,  in  spite  of  her  own  ascetic  wish 
to  have  no  personal  adornment,  was  obliged  to  give  way  to  her 
mother  about  her  hair,  and  submit  to  have  the  abundant  black 
locks  plaited  into  a  coronet  on  the  summit  of  her  head,  after 
the  pitiable  fashion  of  those  antiquated  times. 

*^  Let  your  mother  have  that  bit  o'  pleasure,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver  ;  "  I  'd  trouble  enough  with  your  hair  once." 

So  Maggie,  glad  of  anything  that  would  soothe  her  mother, 
and  cheer  their  long  day  together,  consented  to  the  vain  decora- 
tion, and  showed  a  queenly  head  above  her  old  frocks  —  steadily 
refusing,  however,  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Mrs.  Tulliver 
liked  to  call  the  father's  attention  to  Maggie's  hair  and  other 
unexpected  virtues,  but  he  had  a.  orusque  reply  to  give. 


THE  VALLEY   OF   HUMILIATION.  313 

<'I  knew  well  enough  what  she'd  be,  before  now -it's 
nothing  new  to  me.  But  it's  a  pity  she  isn't  made  o'  com- 
moner stuff -she '11  be  thrown  away,  I  doubt:  there'll  be 
nobody  to  marry  her  as  is  fit  for  her." 

And  Maggie's  graces  of  mind  and  body  fed  his  gloom  He 
sat  patiently  enough  while  she  read  him  a  chapter,  or  said 
something  timidly  when  they  were  alone  together  about 
trouble  being  turned  into  a  blessing.  He  took  it  all  as  part 
of  his  daughter's  goodness,  which  made  his  misfortunes  the 
sadder  to  him  because  they  damaged  her  chance  in  life  In  a 
mind  charged  with  an  eager  purpose  and  an  unsatisfied  vin- 
dictiveness,  there  is  no  room  for  new  feelings .  I^Ir.  Tulliver 
did  not  want  spiritual  consolation  —  he  wanted  to  shake  ofi 
the  degradation  of  debt,  and  to  have  his  revenge. 


BOOK    V. 

WHEAT    AND    TARES. 


CHAPTER   L 

IN"    THE    RED    DEEPS. 

The  family  sitting-room  was  a  long  room  with  a  window  &t 
each  end ;  one  looking  towards  the  croft  and  along  the  Ripple 
to  the  banks  of  the  Floss,  the  other  into  the  mill-yard.  Maggie 
was  sitting  with  her  work  against  the  latter  window  when 
she  saw  Mr.  Wakem  entering  the  yard,  as  usual,  on  his  fine 
black  horse  ;  but  not  alone,  as  usual.  Some  one  was  with 
him  —  a  figure  in  a  cloak,  on  a  handsome  pony,  Maggie  had 
hardly  time  to  feel  that  it  was  Philip  come  back,  before  they 
were  in  front  of  the  window,  and  he  was  raising  his  hat  to 
her;  while  his  father,  catching  the  movement  by  a  side- 
glance,  looked  sharply  round  at  them  both. 

Maggie  hurried  away  from  the  window  and  carried  her 
work  up-stairs ;  for  Mr.  Wakem  sometimes  came  in  and  in- 
spected the  books,  and  Maggie  felt  that  the  meeting  with 
Philip  would  be  robbed  of  all  pleasure  in  the  presence  of  the 
two  fathers.  Some  day,  perhaps,  she  should  see  him  when 
they  could  just  shake  hands,  and  she  could  tell  him  that  she 
remembered  his  goodness  to  Tom,  and  the  things  he  had  said 
to  her  in  the  old  days,  though  they  could  never  be  friends 
any  more.  It  was  not  at  all  agitating  to  Maggie  to  see  Philip 
again ;  she  retained  her  childish  gratitude  and  pity  towards 
him,  and  remembered  his  cleverness ;  and  in  the  early  weeks 
of  her  loneliness  she  had  continually  recalled  the  image  of  him 
among  the  people  who  had  been  kind  to  her  in  life;  often 
wishing  she  had  him  for  a  brother  and  a  teacher,  as  they  had 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  315 

fancied  it  might  have  been,  in  their  talk  together.  But  that 
sort  of  wishing  had  been  banished  along  with  other  dreams 
that  savored  of  seeking  her  own  will ;  and  she  thought,  besides, 
that  Philip  might  be  altered  by  his  life  abroad  —  he  might 
have  become  worldly,  and  really  not  care  about  her  saying 
anything  to  him  now.  And  yet,  his  face  was  wonderfully 
little  altered  —  it  was  only  a  larger,  more  manly  copy  of  the 
pale  small-featured  boy's  face,  with  the  gray  eyes,  and  the 
boyish  waving  brown  hair  :  there  was  the  old  deformity  to 
awaken  the  old  pity ;  and  after  all  her  meditations,  Maggie  felt 
that  she  really  should  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  him.  He 
might  still  be  melancholy,  as  he  always  used  to  be,  and  like 
her  to  look  at  him  kindly.  She  wondered  if  he  remembered 
how  he  used  to  like  her  eyes ;  with  that  thought  Maggie 
glanced  towards  the  square  looking-glass  which  was  con- 
demned to  hang  with  its  face  toAvards  the  wall,  and  she  half 
started  from  her  seat  to  reach  it  down  ;  but  she  checked 
herself  and  snatched  up  her  work,  trying  to  repress  the  rising 
wishes  by  forcing  her  memory  to  recall  snatches  of  hymns, 
until  she  saw  Philip  and  his  father  returning  along  the  road, 
and  she  could  go  down  again. 

It  was  far  on  in  June  now,  and  Maggie  was  inclined  to 
lengthen  the  daily  walk  which  was  her  one  indulgence;  but 
this  day  and  the  following  she  was  so  busy  with  work  which 
must  be  finished  that  she  never  went  be5'^ond  the  gate,  and 
satisfied  her  need  of  the  open  air  by  sitting  out  of  doors. 
One  of  her  frequent  walks,  when  she  was  not  obliged  to  go  to 
St.  Ogg's,  was  to  a  spot  that  lay  beyond  what  was  called  the 
"  Hill "  —  an  insignificant  rise  of  ground  crowned  by  trees, 
lying  along  the  side  of  the  road  which  ran  by  the  gates  of 
Dorlcote  Mill.  Insignificant  I  call  it,  because  in  height  it  was 
hardly  more  than  a  bank  ;  but  there  may  come  moments  when 
Nature  makes  a  mere  bank  a  means  towards  a  fateful  result, 
and  that  is  why  I  ask  you  to  imagine  this  high  bank  crowned 
with  trees,  making  an  uneven  wall  for  some  quarter  of  a  mile 
along  the  left  side  of  Dorlcote  Mill  and  the  pleasant  fields 
behind  it,  bounded  by  the  murmuring  Kipple.  Just  where 
this  line  of  bank  sloped  down  again  to  the  level,  a  by-road 


316  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

turned  off  and  led  to  the  other  side  of  the  rise,  where  it  was 
broken  into  very  capricious  hollows  and  mounds  by  the  work- 
ing of  an  exhausted  stone-quarry  —  so  long  exhausted  that 
both  mounds  and  hollows  were  now  clothed  with  brambles 
and  trees,  and  here  and  there  by  a  stretch  of  grass  which  a 
few  sheep  kept  close-nibbled.  In  her  childish  days  Maggie 
held  this  place,  called  the  E,ed  Deeps,  in  very  great  awe,  and 
needed  all  her  confidence  in  Tom's  bravery  to  reconcile  her  to 
an  excursion  thither  — -  visions  of  robbers  and  fierce  animals 
haunting  every  hollow.  But  now  it  had  the  charm  for  her 
which  any  broken  ground,  any  mimic  rock  and  ravine,  have 
for  the  eyes  that  rest  habitually  on  the  level ;  especially  in 
summer,  when  she  could  sit  on  a  grassy  hollow  under  the 
shadow  of  a  branching  ash,  stooping  aslant  from  the  steep 
above  her,  and  listen  to  the  hum  of  insects,  like^  tiniest  bells 
on  the  garment  of  Silence,  or  see  the  sunlight  piercing  the 
distant  boughs,  as  if  to  chase  and  drive  home  the  truant 
heavenly  blue  of  the  wild  hyacinths.  In  this  June  time  too, 
the  dog-roses  were  in  their  glory,  and  that  vas  an  additional 
reason  why  Maggie  should  direct  her  walk  to  the  Red  Deeps, 
rather  than  to  any  other  spot,  on  the  first  day  she  was  free  to 
wander  at  her  will  —  a  pleasure  she  loved  so  well,  that  some- 
times, in  her  ardors  of  renunciation,  she  thought  she  ought  to 
deny  herself  the  frequent  indulgence  in  i*--. 

You  may  see  her  now,  as  she  walks  down  the  favorite  turn- 
ing, and  enters  the  Deeps  by  a  narrow  path  through  a  group 
of  Scotch  firs  —  her  tall  figure  and  o)d  lavender  gown  visible 
through  an  hereditary  black  silk  shawl  of  some  wide-meshed 
net-like  material ;  and  now  she  is  ?ure  of  being  unseen,  she 
takes  off  her  bonnet  and  ties  it  over  her  arm.  One  would 
certainly  suppose  her  to  be  farther  on  in  life  than  her  seven- 
teenth year  —  perhaps  because  of  the  slow  resigned  sadness  of 
the  glance,  from  which  all  search  and  unrest  seem  to  have 
departed,  perhaps  because  h'sw  broad-chested  figure  has  the 
mould  of  early  womanhood.  Youth  and  health  have  with- 
stood well  the  involuntary  and  voluntary  hardships  of  her  lot, 
and  the  nights  in  which  sbe  has  lain  on  the  hard  floor  for  a 
penance  have  lef#  *>*^»*»}'vious  trace;  the  eyes  are  liquid,  the 


WHEAT   AND   TAKES.  317 

brown  cheek  is  firm  and  rounded,  the  full  lips  are  red.  With 
her  dark  coloring  and  jet  crown  surmounting  her  tall  figure, 
she  seems  to  have  a  sort  of  kinship  with  the  grand  Scotch 
firs,  at  which  she  is  looking  up  as  if  she  loved  them  well. 
Yet  one  has  a  sense  of  uneasiness  in  looking  at  her  —  a  sense 
of  opposing  elements,  of  which  a  fierce  collision  is  imminent : 
surely  there  is  a  hushed  expression,  such  as  one  often  sees  in 
older  faces  under  borderless  caps,  out  of  keeping  with  the 
resistant  youth,  which  one  expects  to  flash  out  in  a  sudden, 
passionate  glance,  that  will  dissipate  all  the  quietude,  like  a 
damj)  fire  leaping  out  again  when  all  seemed  safe. 

But  Maggie  herself  was  not  uneasy  at  this  moment.  She 
was  calmly  enjoying  the  free  air,  while  she  looked  up  at  the 
old  fir-trees,  and  thought  that  those  broken  ends  of  branches 
were  the  records  of  past  storms,  which  had  only  made  the  red 
stems  soar  higher.  But  while  her  eyes  were  still  turned  up- 
ward,  she  became  conscious  of  a  moving  shadow  cast  by  the 
evening  sun  on  the  grassy  path  before  her,  and  looked  down 
with  a  startled  gesture  to  see  Philip  Wakem,  who  first  raised 
his  hat,  and  then,  blushing  deeply,  came  forward  to  her  and 
put  out  his  hand.  Maggie,  too,  colored  with  surprise,  which 
soon  gave  way  to  pleasure.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  looked 
down  at  the  deformed  figure  before  her  with  frank  eyes,  filled 
for  the  moment  with  nothing  but  the  memory  of  her  child's 
feelings  —  a  memory  that  was  always  strong  in  her.  She  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  startled  me,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly ;  "  I  never 
meet  any  one  here.  How  came  you  to  be  walking  here? 
Did  you  come  to  meet  me  ? " 

It  was  impossible  not  to  perceive  that  Maggie  felt  herself 
a  child  again. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  Philip,  still  embarrassed  :  "  I  wished  to 
see  you  very  much.  I  watched  a  long  while  yesterday  on  the 
bank  near  your  house  to  see  if  you  would  come  out,  but  you 
never  came.  Then  I  watched  again  to-day,  and  when  I  saw 
the  way  you  took,  I  kept  you  in  sight  and  came  down  the 
bank,  behind  there.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  displeased  with 
me." 


318  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

"No."  said  Maggie,  Avitli  simple  seriousness,  walking  on  as 
if  she  meant  Philip  to  accompany  her,  "  I  'm  very  glad  you 
came,  for  I  wished  very  much  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  you.  I  've  never  forgotten  how  good  you  were 
long  ago  to  Tom,  and  me  too  ;  but  I  was  not  sure  that  you 
would  remember  us  so  well.  Tom  and  I  have  had  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  since  then,  and  I  think  that  makes  one  think  more 
of  what  happened  before  the  trouble  came." 

"I  can't  believe  that  you  have  thought  of  me  so  much  as 
I  have  thought  of  you,"  said  Philip,  timidly.  "  Do  you  know, 
when  I  was  away,  I  made  a  picture  of  you  as  you  looked 
that  morning  in  the  study  when  you  said  you  would  not  for- 
get me.'-' 

Philip  drew  a  large  miniature-case  from  his  pocket,  and 
opened  it.  Maggie  saw  her  old  self  leaning  on  a  table,  with 
her  black  locks  hanging  down  behind  her  ears,  looking  into 
space  with  strange,  dreamy  eyes.  It  was  a  water-color  sketch, 
of  real  merit  as  a  portrait. 

"  Oh  dear,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  and  flushed  with  pleasure, 
"what  a  qvieer  little  girl  I  was!  I  remember  myself  with  my 
hair  in  that  way,  in  that  pink  frock.  I  really  urns  like  a  gypsy. 
I  dare  say  I  am  now,"  she  added,  after  a  little  pause ;  "  am  I 
like  what  you  expected  me  to  be  ?  " 

The  words  might  have  been  those  of  a  coquette,  but  the  full 
bright  glance  Maggie  turned  on  Philip  was  not  that  of  a  co- 
quette. She  really  did  hope  he  liked  her  face  as  it  was  now, 
but  it  was  simply  the  rising  again  of  her  innate  delight  in 
admiration  and  love.  Philip  met  her  eyes  and  looked  at  her 
in  silence  for  a  long  moment,  before  he  said,  quietly,  "No, 
Maggie." 

The  light  died  out  a  little  from  Maggie's  face,  and  there  was 
a  slight  trembling  of  the  lip.  Her  eyelids  fell  lower,  but  she 
did  not  turn  away  her  head,  and  Philip  continued  to  look  at 
her.     Then  he  said,  slowly  — 

"You  are  very  much  more  beautiful  than  I  thought  you 
would  be." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  said  Maggie,  the  pleasure  returning  in  a  deeper 
flush.     She  turned  her  face  away  from  him  and  took  some 


WHEAT   AND  TARES.  319 

steps,  looking  straight  before  her  in  silence,  as  if  she  were 
adjusting  her  consciousness  to  this  new  idea.  Girls  are  so 
accustomed  to  think  of  dress  as  the  main  ground  of  vanity, 
that,  in  abstaining  from  the  looking-glass,  Maggie  had  thought 
more  of  abandoning  all  care  for  adornment  than  of  renouncing 
the  contemplation  of  her  face.  Compai-ing  herself  with  ele- 
gant, wealthy  young  ladies,  it  iiad  not  occurred  to  her  that  she 
could  produce  any  effect  with  her  person,  Philip  seemed  to 
like  the  silence  well.  He  walked  by  her  side,  watching  her 
face,  as  if  that  sight  left  no  room  for  any  other  wish.  They 
had  passed  from  among  the  fir-trees,  and  had  now  come  to  a 
green  hollow  almost  surrounded  by  an  amphitheatre  of  the 
pale  pink  dog-roses.  But  as  the  light  about  them  had  bright- 
ened, Maggie's  face  had  lost  its  glow.  She  stood  still  when 
they  were  in  the  hollows,  and,  looking  at  Philip  again,  she 
said,  in  a  serious,  sad  voice  — 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  been  friends  —  I  mean,  if  it  would 
have  been  good  and  right  for  us.  But  that  is  the  trial  I  have 
to  bear  in  everything :  I  may  not  keep  anything  I  used  to  love 
when  I  was  little.  The  old  books  went ;  and  Tom  is  different 
—  and  my  father.  It  is  like  death.  I  must  part  with  every- 
thing I  cared  for  when  I  was  a  child.  And  I  must  part  with 
you :  we  must  never  take  any  notice  of  each  other  again.  That 
was  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  for.  I  wanted  to  let  you 
know  that  Tom  and  I  can't  do  as  we  like  about  such  things, 
and  that  if  I  behave  as  if  I  had  forgotten  all  about  you,  it 
is  not  out  of  envy  or  pride  —  or  —  or  any  bad  feeling." 

Maggie  spoke  with  more  and  more  sorrowful  gentleness  as 
she  went  on,  and  her  eyes  began  to  fill  with  tears.  The  deep- 
ening expression  of  pain  on  Philip's  face  gave  him  a  stronger 
resemblance  to  his  boyish  self,  and  made  the  deformity  appeal 
more  strongly  to  her  pity. 

"I  know. —  I  see  all  that  you  mean,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  had  become  feebler  from  discouragement :  "  1  know  what 
there  is  to  keep  us  apart  on  both  sides.  But  it  is  not  right, 
Maggie  —  don't  you  be  angry  with  me,  I  am  so  used  to  call 
you  Maggie  in  my  thoughts  —  it  is  not  right  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing to  other  people's  unreasonable  feelings.     I  would  give 


320  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

up  a  great  deal  for  my  father ;  but  I  would  not  give  up  a 
friendship  or  —  or  an  attachment  of  any  sort,  in  obedience  to 
any  wish  of  his  that  T  did  n't  recognize  as  right." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  musingly.  "Often,  when  I 
have  been  angry  and  discontented,  it  has  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was  not  bound  to  give  up  anything,  and  I  have  gone  on 
thinking  till  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  think  away  all 
my  duty.  But  no  good  has  ever  come  of  that  —  it  was  an  evil 
state  of  mind.  I  'm  quite  sure  that  whatever  I  might  do,  I 
should  wish  in  the  end  that  I  had  gone  without  anything  for 
myself,  rather  than  have  made  my  father's  life  harder  to 
him." 

"  But  would  it  make  his  life  harder  if  we  were  to  see  each 
other  sometimes  ?  "  said  Philip.  He  was  going  to  say  some- 
thing else,  but  checked  himself. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sure  he  would  n't  like  it.  Don't  ask  me  why,  or 
anything  about  it,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  distressed  tone.  "  My 
father  feels  so  strongly  about  some  things.  He  is  not  at  all 
happy." 

"  No  more  am  I,"  said  Philip,  impetuously :  "  /  am  not 
happy." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Maggie,  gently.  "  At  least  —  I  ought  not  to 
ask  —  but  I  'm  very,  very  sorry." 

Philip  turned  to  walk  on,  as  if  he  had  not  patience  to  stand 
still  any  longer,  and  they  went  out  of  the  hollow,  winding 
amongst  the  trees  and  bushes  in  silence.  After  that  last  word 
of  Philip's,  Maggie  could  not  bear  to  insist  immediately  on 
their  parting. 

"  I  've  been  a  great  deal  happier,"  she  said  at  last,  timidly, 
"  since  I  have  given  up  thinking  about  what  is  eas}''  and  pleas- 
ant, and  being  discontented  because  I  could  n't  have  my  own 
will.  Our  life  is  determined  for  us  —  and  it  makes  the  mind 
very  free  when  we  give  up  wishing,  and  only  think  of  bearing 
what  is  laid  upon  us,  and  doing  what  is  given  us  to  do." 

"But  I  can't  give  up  wishing,"  said  Philip,  impatiently. 
"  It  seems  to  me  we  can  never  give  up  longing  and  wishing 
while  we  are  thoroughly  alive.  There  are  certain  things  we 
feel  to  be  beautiful  and  good,  and  we  must  hunger  after  them. 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  321 

How  can  we  ever  be  satisfied  without  them  until  our  feelings 
are  deadened  ?  I  delight  in  fine  pictures  —  I  long  to  be  able 
to  paint  such.  I  strive  and  strive,  and  can't  produce  what  I 
want.  That  is  pain  to  me,  and  always  ivill  be  pain,  until  my 
faculties  lose  their  keenness,  like  aged  eyes.  Then  there  are 
many  other  things  I  long  for  "  —  here  Philip  hesitated  a  little, 
and  then  said  —  '■  things  that  other  men  have,  and  that  will 
always  be  denied  me.  My  life  will  have  nothing  great  or 
beautiful  in  it ;  I  would  rather  not  have  lived." 

"  Oh,  Philip,"  said  Maggie,  "  I  wish  you  did  n't  feel  so."  But 
her  heart  began  to  beat  with  something  of  Philip's  discontent. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  turning  quickly  round  and  fixing  his 
gray  eyes  entreatingly  in  her  face,  "  I  should  be  contented  to 
live,  if  you  would  let  me  see  you  sometimes."  Then,  checked 
by  a  fear  which  her  face  suggested,  he  looked  away  again,  and 
said,  more  calmly,  "  I  have  no  friend  to  whom  I  can  tell  every- 
thing —  no  one  who  cares  enough  about  me ;  and  if  I  could 
only  see  you  now  and  then,  and  you  would  let  me  talk  to  you 
a  little,  and  show  me  that  you  cared  for  me  —  and  that  we 
may  always  be  friends  in  heart,  and  help  each  other  —  then  I 
might  come  to  be  glad  of  life." 

"  But  how  can  I  see  you,  Philip  ?  "  said  Maggie,  falteringly. 
(Could  she  really  do  him  good  ?  It  would  be  very  hard  to  say 
"good-by  "  this  day,  and  not  speak  to  him  again.  Here  was  a 
new  interest  to  vary  the  days  —  it  was  so  much  easier  to  re- 
nounce the  interest  before  it  came.) 

"  If  you  would  let  me  see  you  here  sometimes  —  walk  with 
you  here  —  I  would  be  contented  if  it  were  only  once  or  twice 
in  a  month.  That  could  injure  no  one's  happiness,  and  it 
would  sweeten  my  life.  Besides,"  Philip  wont  on,  with  all 
the  inventive  astuteness  of  love  at  one-and-twenty,  "  if  there 
is  any  enmity  between  those  who  belong  to  us,  we  ought  all 
the  more  to  try  and  quench  it  by  our  friendship  —  I  mean, 
that  by  our  influence  on  both  sides  we  might  bring  about  a 
healing  of  the  wounds  that  have  been  made  in  the  past,  if  I 
could  know  everything  about  them.  And  I  don't  believe  there 
is  any  enmity  in  my  own  father's  mind :  I  think  he  has  proved 
the  contrary." 

VOL.   II.  21 


322  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Maggie  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  was  silent,  under  con- 
flicting thoughts.  It  seemed  to  her  inclination,  that  to  see 
Philip  now  and  then,  and  keep  up  the  bond  of  friendship  with 
him,  was  something  not  only  innocent,  but  good :  perhaps  she 
might  really  help  him  to  find  contentment  as  she  had  found  it. 
The  voice  that  said  this  made  sweet  music  to  Maggie ;  but 
athwart  it  there  came  an  urgent  monotonous  warning  from 
another  voice  which  she  had  been  learning  to  obey :  the 
warning  that  such  interviews  implied  secrecy  —  implied  doing 
something  she  would  dread  to  be  discovered  in  —  something 
that,  if  discovered,  must  cause  anger  and  pain";  and  that  the 
admission  of  anything  so  near  doubleness  would  act  as  a  spir- 
itual blight.  Yet  the  music  would  swell  out  again,  like  chimes 
borne  onward  by  a  recurrent  breeze,  persuading  her  that  the 
wrong  lay  all  in  the  faults  and  weaknesses  of  others,  and  that 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  futile  sacrifice  for  one  to  the  injury 
of  another.  It  was  very  cruel  for  Philip  that  he  should  be 
shrunk  from,  because  of  an  unjustifiable  vindictiveness  towards 
his  father  —  poor  Philip,  whom  some  people  would  shrink 
from  only  because  he  was  deformed.  The  idea  that  he  might 
become  her  lover,  or  that  her  meeting  him  could  cause  dis- 
approval in  that  light,  had  not  occurred  to  her;  and  Philip  saw 
the  absence  of  this  idea  clearly  enough  —  saw  it  with  a  certain 
pang,  although  it  made  her  consent  to  his  request  the  less 
unlikely.  There  was  bitterness  to  him  in  the  perception  that 
Maggie  was  almost  as  frank  and  unconstrained  towards  him 
as  when  she  was  a  child. 

"I  can't  say  either  yes  or  no,"  she  said  at  last,  turn- 
ing round  and  walking  towards  the  way  she  had  come;  "I 
must  wait,  lest  I  should  decide  wrongly.  I  must  seek  for 
guidance." 

"  May  I  come  again,  then  — to-morrow  —  or  the  next  day  — 
or  next  week  ?  " 

''  I  think  I  had  better  write,"  said  Maggie,  faltering  again. 
'■'  I  have  to  go  to  St.  Ogg's  sometimes,  and  I  can  put  the  letter 
in  the  post." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Philip,  eagerly  ;  "that  would  not  be  so  well. 
My   father   might   see   the   letter  —  and  —  he   has   not  any 


WHEAT   AND   TAKES.  393 

eumity,  I  believe,  but  he  views  things  differently  from  me; 
he  thinks  a  great  deal  about  wealth  and  position.  Pray  iei  me 
come  here  once  more.  Tell  me  when  it  shall  be ;  or  if  you 
can't  tell  me,  I  will  come  as  often  as  I  can  till  I  do  see  you." 

''1  think  it  must  be  so,  then,"  said  Maggie,  "for  I  can't  bo 
quite  certain  of  coming  here  any  particular  evening." 

Maggie  felt  a  great  relief  in  adjourning  the  decision.  She 
was  free  now  to  enjoy  the  minutes  of  companionship ;  she 
almost  thought  she  might  linger  a  little ;  the  next  time 
they  met  she  should  have  to  pain  Philip  by  telling  him  her 
determination. 

"  I  can't  help  thinking,"  she  said,  looking  smilingly  at  him, 
after  a  few  moments  of  silence,  ^'  how  strange  it  is  that  we 
should  have  met  and  talked  to  each  other,  just  as  if  it  had 
been  only  yesterday  when  we  parted  at  Lorton.  And  yet  we 
must  both  be  very  much  altered  in  those  five  years  —  I  think 
it  is  five  years.  How  was  it  you  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of 
feeling  that  I  was  the  same  Maggie  ?  —  I  was  not  quite  so 
sure  that  you  would  be  the  same :  I  know  you  are  so  clever, 
and  you  must  have  seen  and  learnt  so  much  to  fill  your  mind : 
I  was  not  quite  sure  you  would  care  about  me  now." 

"  I  have  never  had  any  doubt  that  you  would  be  the  same, 
whenever  I  might  see  you,"  said  Philip.  "■  I  mean,  the  same 
in  everything  that  made  me  like  you  better  than  any  one  else. 
I  don't  want  to  explain  that :  I  don't  think  any  of  the  strong- 
est effects  our  natures  are  susceptible  of  can  ever  be  explained. 
We  can  neither  detect  the  process  by  which  they  are  arrived 
at,  nor  the  mode  in  which  tliey  act  on  us.  The  greatest  of 
painters  only  once  painted  a  mysteriously  divine  child  ;  he 
could  n't  have  told  how  he  did  it,  and  we  can't  tell  why  we 
feel  it  to  be  divine.  I  think  there  are  stores  laid  up  in  our 
human  nature  that  our  understandings  can  make  no  complete 
inventory  of.  Certain  strains  of  music  affect  me  so  strangely 
—  I  can  never  hear  them  withoiit  their  changing  my  whole 
attitude  of  mind  for  a  time,  and  if  the  effect  would  last,  I 
might  be  capable  of  heroisms." 

"  Ah !  I  know  what  you  mean  about  music  —  I  feel  so," 
said   Maggie,  clasping  her   hands  with  her  old   impetuosity. 


824  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"At  least,"  she  added,  in  a  saddened  tone,  "  I  used  to  feel  so 
when  I  had  any  music :  I  never  have  any  now  except  the  organ 
at  church." 

"  And  you  long  for  it,  Maggie  ?  "  said  Philip,  looking  at  her 
with  affectionate  pity.  *'  Ah,  you  can  have  very  little  that  is 
beautiful  in  your  life.  Have  you  many  books  ?  You  were  so 
fond  of  them  when  you  were  a  little  girl." 

They  were  come  back  to  the  hollow,  round  which  the  dog- 
roses  grew,  and  they  both  paused  under  the  charm  of  the 
faery  evening  light,  reflected  from  the  pale  pink  clusters. 

"  "No,  I  have  given  up  books,"  said  Maggie,  quietly,  "  except 
a  very,  very  few." 

Philip  had  already  taken  from  his  pocket  a  small  volume, 
and  was  looking  at  the  back  as  he  said  — 

"  Ah,  this  is  the  second  volume,  I  see,  else  you  might  have 
liked  to  take  it  home  with  you.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  because 
I  am  studying  a  scene  for  a  picture." 

Maggie  had  looked  at  the  back  too,  and  saw  the  title :  it 
revived  an  old  impression  with  overmastering  force. 

" '  The  Pirate,' "  she  said,  taking  the  book  from  Philip's 
hands.  "  Oh,  I  began  that  once ;  I  read  to  where  Minna  is 
walking  with  Cleveland,  and  I  could  never  get  to  read  the 
rest.  I  went  on  with  it  in  my  own  head,  and  I  made  several 
endings ;  but  they  were  all  unhappy.  I  could  never  make  a 
happy  ending  out  of  that  beginning.  Poor  Minna  !  I  wonder 
what  is  the  real  end.  For  a  long  while  I  could  n't  get  my 
mind  away  from  the  Shetland  Isles  —  I  used  to  feel  the  wind 
blowing  on  me  from  the  rough  sea." 

Maggie  spoke  rapidly,  with  glistening  eyes. 

"  Take  that  volume  home  with  you,  Maggie,"  said  Philip, 
watching  her  with  delight.  "  I  don't  want  it  now.  I  shall 
make  a  picture  of  you  instead  — you,  among  the  Scotch  firs  and 
the  slanting  shadows." 

Maggie  had  not  heard  a  word  he  had  said :  she  was  absorbed 
in  a  page  at  which  she  had  opened.  But  suddenly  she  closed 
the  book,  and  gave  it  back  to  Philip,  shaking  her  head  with 
a  backward  movement,  as  if  to  say  "  avaunt "  to  floating 
risions. 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  325 

"  Do  keep  it,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  entreatingly ;  « it  will 
give  you  pleasure." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  putting  it  aside  with  her 
hand  and  walking  on.  "  It  would  make  me  in  love  with  this 
world  again,  as  I  used  to  be  —  it  would  make  me  long  to  see  and 
know  many  things — it  would  make  me  long  for  a  full  life." 

"  But  you  will  not  always  be  shut  up  in  your  present  lot : 
why  should  you  starve  your  mind  in  that  way  ?  It  is  narrow 
asceticism  —  I  don't  like  to  see  you  persisting  in  it,  Maggie. 
Poetry  and  art  and  knowledge  are  sacred  and  pure." 

"  But  not  for  me  —  not  for  me,"  said  Maggie,  walking  more 
hurriedly.  "  Because  I  should  want  too  much.  I  must  wait  — ~ 
this  life  will  not  last  long." 

"Don't  hurry  away  from  me  without  saying  «good-by,* 
Maggie,"  said  Philip,  as  they  reached  the  group  of  Scotch  firs, 
and  she  continued  still  to  walk  along  without  speaking.  "  I 
must  not  go  any  farther,  I  think,  must  I  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  I  forgot ;  good-by,"  said  Maggie,  pausing,  and 
putting  out  her  hand  to  him.  The  action  brought  her  feeling 
back  in  a  strong  current  to  Philip ;  and  after  they  had  stood 
looking  at  each  other  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  with  their 
hands  clasped,  she  said,  withdrawing  her  hand  — 

"I'm  very  grateful  to  you  for  thinking  of  me  all  those 
years.  It  is  very  sweet  to  have  people  love  us.  What  a  won- 
derful, beautiful  thing  it  seems  that  God  should  have  made 
your  heart  so  that  you  could  care  about  a  queer  little  girl  whom 
you  only  knew  for  a  few  weeks  1  I  remember  saying  to  you, 
that  I  thought  you  cared  for  me  more  than  Tom  did." 

"Ah,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  almost  fretfully,  "you  would 
never  love  me  so  well  as  you  love  your  brother." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Maggie,  simply  ;  "  but  then,  you  know, 
the  first  thing  I  ever  remember  in  my  life  is  standing  with 
Tom  by  the  side  of  the  Floss,  while  he  held  my  hand :  every- 
thing before  that  is  dark  to  me.  But  I  shall  never  forget  you 
—  though  we  must  keep  apart." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Maggie,"  said  Philip.  "  If  I  kept  that  little 
girl  in  my  mind  for  five  years,  did  n't  I  earn  some  part  in  her  ? 
She  ought  not  to  take  herself  quite  away  from  me." 


326  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Not  if  I  were  free,"  said  Maggie ;  "  but  I  am  not  —  I  must 
submit."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  added,  "And 
I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  that  you  had  better  not  take  more 
notice  of  my  brother  than  just  bowing  to  him.  He  once  told 
me  not  to  speak  to  you  again,  and  he  does  n't  change  his 
mind.  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  the  suu  is  set.  I  am  too  long  away. 
Good-by."     She  gave  him  her  hand  ouce  more. 

"  I  shall  come  here  as  often  as  1  can,  till  I  see  you  again, 
Maggie.     Have  some  feeling  for  me  as  well  as  for  others." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have,"  said  Maggie,  hurrying  away,  and  quickly 
disappearing  behind  the  last  hr-tree  ;  though  Philip's  gaze 
after  her  remained  immovable  for  minutes  as  if  he  saw  her 
still. 

Maggie  went  home,  with  an  inward  conflict  already  begun ; 
Philip  went  home  to  do  nothing  but  remember  and  hope.  You 
can  hardly  help  blaming  him  severely.  He  was  four  or  five 
years  older  than  Maggie,  and  had  a  full  consciousness  of  his 
feeling  towards  her  to  aid  him  in  foreseeing  the  character  his 
contemplated  interviews  with  her  would  bear  in  the  opinion 
of  a  third  person.  But  you  must  not  sujjpose  that  he  was 
capable  of  a  gross  selfishness,  or  that  he  could  have  been  satis- 
fied without  persuading  himself  that  he  was  seeking  to  infuse 
some  happiness  into  Maggie's  life  —  seeking  this  even  more 
than  any  direct  ends  for  himself.  He  could  give  her  sympathy 
—  he  could  give  her  help.  There  was  not  the  slightest  prom- 
ise of  love  towards  him  in  her  manner ;  it  was  nothing  more 
than  the  sweet  girlish  tenderness  she  had  shown  him  when  she 
was  twelve  :  perhaps  she  would  never  love  him  —  perhaps  no 
woman  ever  cotdd  love  him  :  well,  thi^n,  he  would  endure  that; 
he  should  at  least  have  the  happiness  of  seeing  her  —  of  feel- 
ing some  nearness  to  her.  And  he  clutched  passionately  the 
possibility  that  she  might  love  him :  perhaps  the  feeling 
would  gi'ow,  if  she  could  come  to  associate  him  with  that 
watchful  tenderness  which  her  nature  would  be  so  keenly 
alive  to.  If  any  woman  could  love  him,  surely  Maggie  was 
that  woman :  there  was  such  wealth  of  love  in  her,  and  there 
was  no  one  to  claim  it  all.  Then  —  the  pity  of  it,  that  a  mind 
like  hers  should  be  withering  in  its  very  youth,  like  a  young 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  827 

forest-tree,  for  want  of  the  light  and  space  it  was  formed  to 
flourish  in  !  Gould  he  not  hinder  that,  by  persuading  her  out 
of  her  system  of  privation  ?  He  would  be  her  guardian  angel ; 
he  would  do  anything,  bear  anything,  for  her  sake  —  except 
not  seeing  her. 


CHAPTER   II. 

AUNT    GLEGG   LEARNS    THE    BREADTH    OF    BOB's    THUMB. 

While  Maggie's  life-struggles  had  lain  almost  entirely 
within  her  own  soul,  one  shadowy  army  fighting  another,  and 
the  slain  shadows  forever  rising  again,  Tom  was  engaged  in  a 
dustier,  noisier  warfare,  grappling  with  more  substantial  obsta- 
cles, and  gaining  more  definite  conquests.  So  it  has  been  since 
the  days  of  Hecuba,  and  of  Hector,  Tamer  of  horses :  inside 
the  gates,  the  women  with  streaming  hair  and  uplifted  hands 
offering  prayers,  watching  the  world's  combat  from  afar,  filling 
their  long,  empty  days  with  memories  and  fears  :  outside,  the 
men,  in  fierce  struggle  with  things  divine  and  human,  quench- 
ing memory  in  the  stronger  light  of  purpose,  losing  the  sense 
of  dread  and  even  of  wounds  in  the  hurrying  ardor  of  action. 

From  what  you  have  seen  of  Tom,  I  think  he  is  not  a  youth 
of  whom  you  would  prophesy  failure  in  anything  he  had 
thoroughly  wished:  the  wagers  are  likely  to  be  on  his  side, 
notwithstanding  his  small  success  in  the  classics.  For  Tom 
\ad  never  desired  success  in  this  field  of  enterprise ;  and  for 
getting  a  fine  flourishing  growth  of  stupidit}''  there  is  nothing 
like  pouring  out  on  a  mind  a  good  amount  of  subjects  in  which 
it  feels  no  interest.  But  now  Tom's  strong  will  bound  together 
his  integrity,  his  pride,  his  family  regrets,  and  his  personal 
ambition,  and  made  them  one  force,  concentrating  his  efforts 
and  surmounting  discouragements.  His  uncle  Deane,  who 
watched  him  closely,  soon  began  to  conceive  hopes  of  him,  and 
to  be  rather  proud  that  he  had  brought  into  the  employment 
of  the  firm  a  nephew  who  appeared  to  be  made  of  such  good 
commercial  stuff.      The  real  kindness  of  placing  him  in  the 


328  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

warehouse  first  was  soon  evident  to  Tom,  in  the  hints  his 
uncle  began  to  throw  out,  that  after  a  time  he  might  perhaps 
be  trusted  to  travel  at  certain  seasons,  and  buy  in  for  the  firm 
various  vulgar  commodities  with  which  I  need  not  shock  re- 
fined ears  in  this  place ;  and  it  was  doubtless  with  a  view  to 
this  result  that  Mr.  Deane,  when  he  expected  to  take  his  wine 
alone,  would  tell  Tom  to  step  in  and  sit  with  him  an  hour,  and 
would  pass  that  hour  in  much  lecturing  and  catechising  con- 
cerning articles  of  export  and  import,  with  an  occasional  ex- 
cursus of  more  indirect  utility  on  the  relative  advantages  to 
the  merchants  of  St.  Ogg's  of  having  goods  brought  in  their 
own  and  in  foreign  bottoms  —  a  subject  on  which  Mr.  Deane, 
as  a  shipowner,  naturally  threw  off  a  few  sparks  when  he  got 
warmed  with  talk  and  wine.  Already,  in  the  second  year, 
Tom's  salary  was  raised ;  but  all,  except  the  price  of  his  dinner 
and  clothes,  went  home  into  the  tin  box ;  and  he  shunned  com- 
radeship, lest  it  should  lead  him  into  expenses  in  spite  of  him- 
self. Not  that  Tom  was  moulded  on  the  spooney  type  of  the 
Industrious  Apprentice  ;  he  had  a  very  strong  appetite  for 
pleasure  —  would  have  liked  to  be  a  Tamer  of  horses  and  to 
make  a  distinguished  figure  in  all  neighboring  eyes,  dispensing 
treats  and  benefits  to  others  with  well-judged  liberality,  and 
being  pronounced  one  of  the  finest  young  fellows  of  those 
parts ;  nay,  he  determined  to  achieve  these  things  sooner  or 
later ;  but  his  practical  shrewdness  told  him  that  the  means 
to  such  achievements  could  only  lie  for  him  in  present  absti- 
nence and  self-denial :  there  were  certain  milestones  to  be 
passed,  and  one  of  the  first  was  the  payment  of  his  father's 
debts.  Having  made  up  his  mind  on  that  point,  he  strode 
along  without  swerving,  contracting  some  rather  saturnine 
sternness,  as  a  young  man  is  likely  to  do  who  has  a  premature 
call  upon  him  for  self-reliance.  Tom  felt  intensely  that  com- 
mon cause  with  his  father  which  springs  from  family  pride, 
and  was  bent  on  being  irreproachable  as  a  son ;  but  his  grow- 
ing experience  caused  him  to  pass  much  silent  criticism  on  the 
rashness  and  imprudence  of  his  father's  past  conduct :  their 
dispositions  were  not  in  sympathy,  and  Tom's  face  showed 
little  radiance  during  his  few  home  hours.     Maggie  had  an 


WHEAT  AND  TAKES.  329 

awe  of  him,  against  which  she  struggled  as  something  unfair 
to  her  consciousness  of  wider  thoughts  and  deefjer  motives; 
but  it  was  of  no  use  to  struggle.  A  character  at  unity  with 
itself  —  that  performs  what  it  intends,  subdues  every  counter- 
acting impulse,  and  has  no  visions  beyond  the  distinctly  possi- 
ble —  is  strong  by  its  very  negations. 

You  may  imagine  that  Tom's  more  and  more  obvious  un- 
likeness  to  his  father  was  well  fitted  to  conciliate  the  maternal 
aunts  and  uncles ;  and  Mr.  Deane's  favorable  reports  and  pre- 
dictions to  Mr.  Glegg  concerning  Tom's  qualifications  for 
business,  began  to  be  discussed  amongst  them  with  various 
acceptance.  He  was  likely,  it  appeared,  to  do  the  family 
credit,  without  causing  it  any  expense  and  trouble.  Mrs. 
Pullet  had  always  thought  it  strange  if  Tom's  excellent  com 
plexion,  so  entirely  that  of  the  Dodsons,  did  not  argue  a 
certainty  that  he  would  turn  out  well,  his  juvenile  errors  of 
running  down  the  peacock,  and  general  disrespect  to  his  aunts, 
only  indicating  a  tinge  of  Tulliver  blood  which  he  had  doubt- 
less outgrown.  Mr.  Glegg,  who  had  contracted  a  cautious  lik- 
ing for  Tom  ever  since  his  spirited  and  sensible  behavior  when 
the  execution  was  in  the  house,  was  now  waxming  into  a  reso- 
lution to  further  his  prospects  actively  —  some  time,  when  an 
opportunity  offered  of  doing  so  in  a  prudent  manner,  without 
ultimate  loss ;  but  Mrs.  Glegg  observed  that  she  was  not  given 
to  speak  without  book,  as  some  people  were ;  that  those  who 
said  least  were  most  likely  to  find  their  words  made  good;  and 
that  when  the  right  moment  came,  it  would  be  seen  who  could 
do  something  better  than  talk.  Uncle  Pullet,  after  silent  medi- 
tation for  a  period  of  several  lozenges,  came  distinctly  to  the 
conclusion,  that  when  a  young  man  was  likely  to  do  well,  it 
was  better  not  to  meddle  with  him. 

Tom,  meanwhile,  had  shown  no  disposition  to  rely  on  any 
one  but  himself,  though,  with  a  natural  sensitiveness  towards 
all  indications  of  favorable  opinion,  he  was  glad  to  see  his 
uncle  Glegg  look  in  on  him  sometimes  in  a  friendly  way  dur- 
ing business  hours,  and  glad  to  be  invited  to  dine  at  his  house, 
though  he  usually  preferred  declining  on  the  ground  that  he 
was  not  sure  of  being  punctual.     But  about  a  year  ago,  some- 


330  THE   MILL   ON  THE   FLOSS. 

thing  had  occurred  which  induced  Tom  to  test  his  uncle  Glegg's 
friendly  disposition. 

Bob  Jakin,  who  rarely  returned  from  one  of  his  rounds 
without  seeing  Tom  and  Maggie,  awaited  him  on  the  bridge 
as  he  was  coming  home  from  St.  Ogg's  one  evening,  that  they 
might  have  a  little  private  talk.  He  took  the  liberty  of  ask- 
ing if  Mr.  Tom  had  ever  thought  of  making  money  by  trading 
a  bit  on  his  own  account.  Trading,  how  ?  Tom  wished  to 
know.  Why,  by  sending  out  a  bit  of  a  cargo  to  foreign  ports ; 
because  Bob  had  a  particular  friend  who  had  offered  to  do  a 
little  business  for  him  in  that  way  in  Laceham  goods,  and 
would  be  glad  to  serve  Mr.  Tom  on  the  same  footing.  Tom  was 
interested  at  once,  and  begged  for  full  explanation ;  wondering 
he  had  not  thought  of  this  plan  before.  He  was  so  well  pleased 
with  the  prospect  of  a  speculation  that  might  change  the  slow 
process  of  addition  into  multiplication,  that  he  at  once  deter- 
mined to  mention  the  matter  to  his  father,  and  get  his  consent 
to  appropriate  some  of  the  savings  in  the  tin  box  to  the  pur- 
chase of  a  small  cargo.  He  would  rather  not  have  consulted 
his  father,  but  he  had  just  paid  his  last  quarter's  money  into 
the  tin  box,  and  there  was  no  other  resource.  All  the  savings 
were  there  ;  for  Mr.  TuUiver  would  not  consent  to  put  the 
money  out  at  interest  lest  he  should  lose  it.  Since  he  had 
speculated  in  the  purchase  of  some  corn,  and  had  lost  by  it, 
he  could  not  be  easy  without  keeping  the  money  under  his 
eye. 

Tom  approached  the  subject  carefully,  as  he  was  seated  on 
the  hearth  with  his  father  that  evening,  and  Mr.  TuUiver  lis- 
tened, leaning  forward  in  his  arm-chair  and  looking  up  in 
Tom's  face  with  a  sceptical  glance.  His  first  impulse  was 
to  give  a  positive  refusal,  but  he  was  in  some  awe  of  Tom's 
wishes,  and  since  he  had  had  the  sense  of  being  an  "unlucky" 
father,  he  had  lost  some  of  his  old  peremptoriness  and  deter- 
mination to  be  master.  He  took  the  key  of  the  bureau  from 
his  pocket,  got  out  the  key  of  the  large  chest,  and  fetched 
down  the  tin  box  —  slowly,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  defer  the 
moment  of  a  painful  parting.  Then  he  seated  himself  against 
the  table,  and  opened  the  box  with  that  little  padlock-key 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  331 

which  he  fingered  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  in  all  vacant  mo- 
ments. There  they  were,  the  dingy  bank-notes  and  the  bright 
eovereigns,  and  he  counted  them  out  on  the  table  —  only  a 
hundred  and  sixteen  pounds  in  two  years,  after  all  the 
pinching. 

"  How  much  do  you  want,  then  ?  "  he  said,  speaking  as  if 
the  words  burnt  his  lips. 

"Suppose  I  begin  with  the  thirty  six  pounds,  father?"  said 
Tom. 

Mr.  Tulliver  separated  this  sum  from  the  rest,  and,  keeping 
his  hand  over  it,  said  — 

"It's  as  much  as  I  can  save  out  o'  my  pay  in  a  year." 

"  Yes,  father  :  it  is  such  slow  work  —  saving  out  of  the 
little  money  we  get.  And  in  this  way  we  might  double  ouv 
savings." 

"Ay,  my  lad,"  said  the  father,  keeping  his  hand  on  the 
money,  "but  you  might  lose  it  —  you  might  lose  a  year  o' 
my  life  —  and  I  haven't  got  many." 

Tom  was  silent. 

'^  And  you  know  I  would  n't  pay  a  dividend  with  the  first 
hundred,  because  I  wanted  to  see  it  all  in  a  lump  —  and  when 
I  see  it,  I  'm  sure  on  't.  If  you  trust  to  luck,  it 's  sure  to  be 
against  me.  It 's  Old  Harry 's  got  the  luck  in  his  hands ;  and 
if  I  lose  one  year,  I  shall  never  pick  it  up  again  —  death  'uU 
o'ertake  me." 

Mr.  Tulliver's  voice  trembled,  and  Tom  was  silent  for  a  few 
minutes  before  he  said  — 

"I  '11  give  it  up,  father,  since  you  object  to  it  so  strongly." 

But,  unwilling  to  abandon  the  scheme  altogether,  he  deter- 
mined to  ask  his  uncle  Glegg  to  venture  twenty  pounds,  on 
condition  of  receiving  five  per  cent  of  the  profits.  That  was 
really  a  very  small  thing  to  ask.  So  when  Bob  called  the  next 
day  at  the  wharf  to  know  the  decision,  Tom  proposed  that  they 
should  go  together  to  his  uncle  Glegg's  to  open  the  business ; 
for  his  diffident  pride  clung  to  him,  and  made  him  feel  that 
Bob's  tongue  would  relieve  him  from  some  embarrassment. 

Mr.  Glegg,  at  the  pleasant  hour  of  four  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  hot  August  day,  was  naturally  counting  his  wall-fruit  to 


332  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

assure  himself  that  the  sum  total  had  not  varied  since  yester- 
day. To  him  entered  Tom,  in  what  appeared  to  Mr.  Glegg 
very  questionable  companionship  :  that  of  a  man  with  a  pack 
on  his  back  —  for  Bob  was  equipped  for  a  new  journey  —  and  of 
a  huge  brindled  bull-terrier,  who  walked  with  a  slow  swaying 
movement  from  side  to  side,  and  glanced  from  under  his  eye- 
lids with  a  surly  indifference  which  might  after  all  be  a  cover 
to  the  most  offensive  designs.  Mr.  Glegg's  spectacles,  which 
had  been  assisting  him  in  counting  the  fruit,  made  these 
suspicious  details  alarmingly  evident  to  him. 

"  Heigh !  heigh  !  keep  that  dog  back,  will  you  ?  "  he 
shouted,  snatching  up  a  stake  and  holding  it  before  him  as  a 
shield  when  the  visitors  were  within  three  yards  of  him. 

"  Get  out  wi'  you,  Mumps,"  said  Bob,  with  a  kick.  "  He 's 
as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  sir,"  —  an  observation  which  Mumps  cor- 
roborated by  a  low  growl  as  he  retreated  behind  his  master's 
legs. 

"  Why,  what  ever  does  this  mean,  Tom  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg. 
"  Have  you  brought  information  about  the  scoundrels  as  cut 
my  trees  ?  "  If  Bob  came  in  the  character  of  "  information," 
Mr.  Glegg  saw  reasons  for  tolerating  some  irregularity. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Tom :  "  I  came  to  speak  to  you  about  a 
little  matter  of  business  of  my  own." 

"  Ay  —  well ;  but  what  has  this  dog  got  to  do  with  it  ? " 
said  the  old  gentleman,  getting  mild  again. 

"  It 's  my  dog,  sir,"  said  the  ready  Bob.  "  An'  it 's  me  as 
put  Mr.  Tom  up  to  the  bit  o'  business  •,  for  Mr.  Tom  's  been  a 
friend  o'  mine  iver  since  I  was  a  little  chap  :  fust  thing  iver 
I  did  was  frightenin'  the  birds  for  th'  old  master.  An'  if  a 
bit  o'  luck  turns  up,  I  'm  allays  thinkin'  if  I  can  let  Mr.  Tom 
have  a  pull  at  it.  An'  it 's  a  downright  roarin'  shame,  as 
when  he  's  got  the  chance  o'  making  a  bit  o'  money  wi'  send- 
ing goods  out  —  ten  or  twelve  per  zent  clear,  when  freight  an' 
commission 's  paid  —  as  he  should  n't  lay  hold  o'  the  chance 
for  want  o'  money.  An'  when  there  's  the  Laceham  goods  — 
lors  !  they  're  made  o'  purpose  for  folks  as  want  to  send  out 
a  little  carguy ;  light,  an'  take  up  no  room  —  you  may  pack 
twenty  nound  so  as  you  can't  see  the  passill :  an'  they  're 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  888 

manifacturs  as  please  fools,  so  I  reckon  they  are  n't  like  to 
want  a  market.  An'  I  'd  go  to  Laceham  an'  buy  in  the  goods 
for  Mr.  Tom  along  wi'  my  own.  An'  there  's  the  shupercargo 
o'  the  bit  of  a  vessel  as  is  goin'  to  take  'em  out.  I  know  him 
partic'lar ;  he  's  a  solid  man,  an'  got  a  family  i'  the  town  here. 
Salt,  his  name  is  —  an'  a  briny  chap  he  is  too  —  an'  if  you 
don't  believe  me,  I  can  take  you  to  him." 

Uncle  Glegg  stood  open-mouthed  with  astonishment  at  this 
unembarrassed  loquacity,  with  which  his  understanding  could 
hardly  keep  pace.  He  looked  at  Bob,  first  over  his  spectacles, 
then  through  them,  then  over  them  again  ;  while  Tom,  doubt- 
ful of  his  uncle's  impression,  began  to  wish  he  had  not  brought 
this  singular  Aaron  or  mouthpiece  :  Bob's  talk  appeared  less 
seemly,  now  some  one  besides  himself  was  listening  to  it. 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  knowing  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  at 
last. 

"Ay,  sir,  you  say  true,"  returned  Bob,  nodding  his  head 
aside  ;  "  I  think  my  head 's  all  alive  inside  like  an  old  cheese, 
for  I  'm  so  full  o'  plans,  one  knocks  another  over.  If  I 
had  n't  Mumps  to  talk  to,  I  should  get  top-heavy  an'  tumble 
in  a  fit.  I  suppose  it 's  because  I  niver  went  to  school  much. 
That 's  what  I  jaw  my  old  mother  for.  I  says,  '  You  should 
ha'  sent  me  to  school  a  bit  more,'  I  says  —  •'  an'  then  I  could 
ha'  read  i'  the  books  like  fun,  an'  kep'  my  head  cool  an' 
empty.'  Lors,  she  's  fine  an'  comfor'ble  now,  my  old  mother 
is :  she  ates  her  baked  meat  an'  taters  as  often  as  she  likes. 
For  I  'm  gettin'  so  full  o'  money,  I  must  hev  a  wife  to  spend 
it  for  me.  But  it 's  botherin',  a  wife  is  —  and  Mumps  might  n't 
like  her." 

Uncle  Glegg,  who  regarded  himself  as  a  jocose  man  since 
he  had  retired  from  business,  was  beginning  to  find  Bob  amus- 
ing, but  he  had  still  a  disapproving  observation  to  make, 
which  kept  his  face  serious. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  I  should  think  you  're  at  a  loss  for  ways  o' 
spending  your  money,  else  you  would  n't  keep  that  big  dog, 
to  eat  as  much  as  two  Christians.  It 's  shameful  —  shame- 
ful ! "  But  he  spoke  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  and 
quickly  added  — 


C34  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  But,  come  now,  let 's  hear  more  about  this  business,  Tom. 
I  suppose  you  want  a  little  sum  to  make  a  venture  with. 
But  where  's  all  your  own  money  ?  You  don't  spend  it  all 
—  eh?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Tom,  coloring  ;  "  but  my  father  is  unwilling 
to  risk  it,  and  I  don't  like  to  jDress  him.  If  I  could  get  twenty 
or  thirty  pounds  to  begin  with,  I  could  pay  five  per  cent  for 
it,  and  then  I  could  gradually  make  a  little  capital  of  my  own, 
and  do  without  a  loan." 

"  Ay  .  .  .  ay,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  an  approving  tone ; 
"  that 's  not  a  bad  notion,  and  I  won't  say  as  I  would  n't  be 
your  man.  But  it  'ull  be  as  well  for  me  to  see  this  Salt,  as 
you  talk  on.  And  then  .  .  .  here  's  this  friend  o'  yours  offers 
to  buy  the  goods  for  you.  Perhaps  you  've  got  somebody  to 
stand  surety  for  you  if  the  money  's  put  into  your  hands  ?  " 
added  the  cautious  old  gentleman,  looking  over  his  spectacles 
at  Bob. 

"  I  don't  think  that 's  necessary,  uncle,"  said  Tom.  "  At 
least,  I  mean  it  would  not  be  necessary  for  me,  because  I  know 
Bob  well ;  but  perhaps  it  would  be  right  for  you  to  have  some 
security." 

"  You  get  your  percentage  out  o'  the  purchase,  I  suppose  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Glegg,  looking  at  Bob. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Bob,  rather  indignantly  ;  "  I  did  n't  offer  to 
get  a  apple  for  Mr,  Tom,  o'  purpose  to  hev  a  bite  out  of  it 
myself.  When  I  play  folks  tricks  there  '11  be  more  fun  in  'em 
nor  that." 

"  Well,  but  it 's  nothing  but  right  you  should  have  a  small 
percentage,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  I  've  no  opinion  o'  transac- 
tions where  folks  do  things  for  nothing.  It  allays  looks 
bad." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Bob,  whose  keenness  saw  at  once  what 

■  .yas  implied,  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  get  by 't,  an'  it 's  money  in 

my  pocket  in  the  end  :  —  I  make  myself  look  big,  wi'  makin' 

a  bigger   purchase.     That 's  what   I  'm  thinking  on.     Lors  ! 

I  'm  a  'cute  chap  —  I  am." 

"  Mr.  Glegg,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  a  severe  voice  from  the  open 
parlor  window,  "  pray  are  you  coming  in  to  tea  ?  —  or  are  you 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  335 

going  to  stand  talking  with  packmen  till  you  get  murdered  in 
tlie  open  daylight  ?  " 

"  Murdered  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg ;  "  what 's  the  woman  talking 
of  ?     Here  's  your  nephey  Tom  come  about  a  bit  o'  business." 

"  Murdered  —  yes  —  it  is  n't  many  'sizes  ago  since  a  pack- 
man murdered  a  young  woman  in  a  lone  place,  and  stole  her 
thimble,  and  threw  her  body  into  a  ditch." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  soothingly,  "  you  're  thinking  o' 
the  man  wi'  no  legs,  as  drove  a  dog-cart." 

"  Well,  it 's  the  same  thing,  Mr.  Glegg  —  only  you  're  fond 
o'  contradicting  what  I  say  ;  and  if  my  nephey  's  come  about 
business,  it 'ud  be  more  fitting  if  you'd  bring  him  into  the 
house,  and  let  his  aunt  know  about  it,  instead  o'  whispering  in 
corners,  in  that  plotting,  undermiudiug  way." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  ''  we  '11  come  in  now." 

"You  needn't  stay  here,"  said  the  lady  to  Bob,  in  a  loud 
voice,  adapted  to  the  moral  not  the  physical  distance  between 
them,  "  We  don't  want  anything.  I  don't  deal  wi'  packmen. 
Mind  you  shut  the  gate  after  you." 

"  Stop  a  bit ;  not  so  fast,"  said  Mr.  Glegg :  "  I  have  n't  done 
with  this  young  man  yet.  Come  in,  Tom ;  come  in,"  he 
added,  stepping  in  at  the  French  window. 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  in  a  fatal  tone,  "  if  you  're  going 
to  let  that  man  and  his  dog  in  on  my  carpet,  before  my  very 
face,  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  know.  A  wife  's  got  a  right  to 
ask  that,  I  hope." 

"  Don't  you  be  uneasy,  mum,"  said  Bob,  touching  his  cap. 
He  saw  at  once  that  Mrs.  Glegg  was  a  bit  of  game  worth  run- 
ning down,  and  longed  to  be  at  the  sport ;  "  we  '11  stay  out 
upo'  the  gravel  here  —  Mumps  and  me  will.  Mumps  knows 
his  company  —  he  does.  I  might  hish  at  him  by  th'  hour  to- 
gether, before  he  'd  fly  at  a  real  gentlewoman  like  you.  It 's 
wonderful  how  he  knows  which  is  the  good-looking  ladies  — 
and  's  partic'lar  fond  of  'em  when  they  've  good  shapes. 
Lors  !  "  added  Bob,  laying  down  his  pack  on  the  gravel,  "  it 's 
a  thousand  pities  such  a  lady  as  you  should  n't  deal  with  a 
packman,  i'stead  o'  goin'  into  these  newfangled  shops,  where 
there  's  half-a-dozen  fine  gents  wi'  their  chins  propped  up  wi' 


836  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

a  stiff  stock,  a-looking  like  bottles  wi'  ornamental  stoppers, 
an'  all  got  to  get  their  dinner  out  of  a  bit  o'  calico :  it  stan's 
to  reason  you  must  pay  three  times  the  price  you  pay  a  pack- 
man, as  is  the  nat'ral  way  o'  gettin'  goods  —  an'  pays  no  rent, 
an'  is  n't  forced  to  throttle  himself  till  the  lies  are  squeezed 
out  on  him,  whether  he  will  or  no.  But  lors  !  mum,  you  know 
what  it  is  better  nor  I  do  —  you  can  see  through  them  shop- 
men, I  '11  be  bound." 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  I  can,  and  through  the  packmen  too,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Glegg,  intending  to  imply  that  Bob's  flattery  had 
produced  no  effect  on  her ;  while  her  husband,  standing  be- 
hind her  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  legs  apart,  winked 
and  smiled  with  conjugal  delight  at  the  probability  of  his 
wife's  being  circumvented. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure,  mum,"  said  Bob.  "Why,  you  must  ha' 
dealt  wi'  no  end  o'  packmen  when  you  war  a  young  lass  —  be- 
fore the  master  here  had  the  luck  to  set  eyes  on  you.  I  know 
where  you  lived,  I  do  —  seen  th'  house  many  a  time  —  close 
upon  Squire  Darleigh's  —  a  stone  house  wi'  steps  —  " 

"  Ah,  that  it  had,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  pouring  out  the  tea. 
"  You  know  something  o'  my  family,  then  ...  are  you  akin 
to  that  packman  with  a  squint  in  his  eye,  as  used  to  bring  th' 
Irish  linen  ?  " 

"Look  you  there  now!"  said  Bob,  evasively.  "Didn't  I 
know  as  you'd  remember  the  best  bargains  you've  made  in 
your  life  was  made  wi'  packmen  ?  Why,  you  see,  even  a 
squintin'  packman 's  better  nor  a  shopman  as  can  see  straight. 
Lors  !  if  I  'd  had  the  luck  to  call  at  the  stone  house  wi'  my 
pack,  as  lies  here,"  —  stooping  and  thumping  the  bundle  em- 
phatically with  his  fist,  —  "  an'  th'  handsome  young  lasses 
all  stannin'  out  on  the  stone  steps,  it  'ud  ha'  been  summat  like 
openin'  a  pack  —  that  would.  It 's  on'y  the  poor  houses  now 
as  a  packman  calls  on,  if  it  is  n't  for  the  sake  o'  the  sarvant 
maids.  They  're  paltry  times  —  these  are.  Why,  mum,  look 
at  the  printed  cottons  now,  an'  what  they  was  when  you  wore 
'em  —  why,  you  would  n't  put  such  a  thing  on  now,  I  can  see. 
It  must  be  first-rate  quality  —  the  manifactur  as  you  'd  buy  — 
summat  as  'ud  wear  as  well  as  your  own  faitures." 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  337 

"  Yes,  better  quality  nor  any  you  're  like  to  carry :  you  Ve 
got  nothing  first-rate  but  brazenness,  I'll  be  bound,"  said 
Mrs.  Glegg,  with  a  triumphant  sense  of  her  insurmountable 
sagacity.  "  Mr.  Glegg,  are  you  going  ever  to  sit  down  to  your 
tea  ?     Tom,  there 's  a  cup  for  you." 

"You  speak  true  there,  mum,"  said  Bob.  "My  pack  isn't 
for  ladies  like  you.  The  time 's  gone  by  for  that.  Bargains 
picked  up  dirt  cheap !  A  bit  o'  damage  here  an'  there,  as  can 
be  cut  out,  or  else  niver  seen  i'  the  wearin' ;  but  not  fit  to  offer 
to  rich  folks  as  can  pay  for  the  look  o'  things  as  nobody  sees. 
I  'm  not  the  man  as  'ud  offer  t'  open  my  pack  to  you,  mum : 
no,  no ;  I  'm  a  im parent  chap,  as  you  say  —  these  times  makes 
folks  imperent  —  but  I  'm  not  up  to  the  mark  o'  that." 

"Why,  what  goods  do  you  carry  in  your  pack?"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg.    "  Fine-colored  things,  I  suppose  —  shawls  an'  that  ?  " 

"  All  sorts,  mum,  all  sorts,"  said  Bob,  thumping  his  bundle  ; 
"  but  let  us  say  no  more  about  that,  if  yoit  please.  I  'm  here 
upo'  Mr.  Tom's  business,  an'  I  'm  not  the  man  to  take  up  the 
time  wi'  my  own." 

"  And  pray,  what  is  this  business  as  is  to  be  kept  from 
me  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  who,  solicited  by  a  double  curiosity, 
was  obliged  to  let  the  one-half  wait. 

"  A  little  plan  o'  nephey  Tom's  here,"  said  good-natured  Mr. 
Glegg ;  "  and  not  altogether  a  bad  un,  I  think.  A  little  plan 
for  making  money  :  that 's  the  right  sort  o'  plan  for  young 
folks  as  have  got  their  fortin  to  make,  eh,  Jane  ?" 

"  But  I  hope  it  is  n't  a  plan  where  he  expects  iverything  to 
be  done  for  him  by  his  friends  :  that 's  what  the  young  folks 
think  of  mostly  nowadays.  And  pray,  what  has  this  packman 
got  to  do  wi'  what  goes  on  in  our  family  ?  Can't  you  speak 
for  yourself,  Tom,  and  let  your  aunt  know  things,  as  a  nephey 
should  ?  " 

"  This  is  Bob  Jakin,  aunt,"  said  Tom,  bridling  the  irritation 
that  aunt  Glegg's  voice  always  produced.  "  I  've  known  him 
ever  since  we  were  little  boys.  He  's  a  very  good  fellow,  and 
always  ready  to  do  me  a  kindness.  And  he  has  had  some  ex- 
perience in  sending  goods  out  —  a  small  part  of  a  cargo  as 
a  private  speculation  ;  and  he  thinks  if  I  could  begin  to  do  a 
VOL.  II.  22 


338  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

little  in  the  same  way,  I  might  make  some  money.  A  large 
interest  is  got  in  that  way." 

"Large  int'rest?"  said  aunt  Glegg,  with  eagerness;  "and 
what  do  you  call  large  int'rest  ?  " 

"Ten  or  twelve  per  cent,  Bob  says,  after  expenses  are  paid." 

"Then  why  was  n't  I  let  to  know  o'  such  things  before,  Mr. 
Glegg  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  turning  to  her  husband,  with  a  deep 
grating  tone  of  reproach.  "Haven't  you  allays  told  me  as 
there  was  no  getting  more  nor  five  per  cent  ?  " 

"Pooh,  pooh,  nonsense,  my  good  woman,"  said  Mr.  Glegg. 
"  You  could  n't  go  into  trade,  could  you  ?  You  can't  get  more 
than  five  per  cent  with  security." 

"  But  I  can  turn  a  bit  o'  money  for  you,  an'  welcome,  mum," 
said  Bob,  "  if  you  "d  like  to  risk  it  —  not  as  there  's  any  risk 
to  speak  on.  But  if  you  'd  a  mind  to  lend  a  bit  o'  money  to 
Mr.  Tom,  he  'd  pay  you  six  or  seven  per  zent,  an'  get  a  trifle 
for  himself  as  well ;  an'  a  good-natur'd  lady  like  you  'ud  like 
the  feel  o'  the  money  better  if  your  nephey  took  part  on  it." 

"What  do  you  say,  Mrs.  G.  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "I've  a 
notion,  when  I  've  made  a  bit  more  inquiry,  as  I  shall  perhaps 
start  Tom  here  with  a  bit  of  a  nest-egg  —  he  '11  pay  me  int'rest, 
you  know  —  an'  if  you  've  got  some  little  sums  lyin'  idle 
twisted  up  in  a  stockin'  toe,  or  that  —  " 

"  Mr.  Glegg,  it 's  beyond  iverything  !  You  '11  go  and  give 
information  to  the  tramps  next,  as  they  may  come  and  rob 
me." 

"  Well,  well,  as  I  was  sayin',  if  you  like  to  join  me  wi' 
twenty  pounds,  you  can  —  I  '11  make  it  fifty.  That  11  be  a 
pretty  good  nest-egg  —  eh,  Tom  ?  " 

"  You  're  not  counting  on  me,  Mr.  Glegg,  I  hope,"  said  his 
wife.  "You  could  do  fine  things  wi'  my  money,  I  don't 
doubt." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  rather  snappishly,  "  then  we  '11 
do  without  you.  I  shall  go  with  you  to  see  this  Salt,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Bob. 

"  And  now,  I  suppose,  you  '11  go  all  the  other  way,  Mr. 
Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "and  want  to  shut  me  out  o'  my  own 
nephey 's  business.     I  never  said  I  would  n't  put  money  into 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  389 

it  —  I  don't  say  as  it  shall  be  twenty  pounds,  though  you  're 
so  ready  to  say  it  for  me  —  but  he  '11  see  some  day  as  his  aunt 's 
in  the  right  not  to  risk  the  money  she 's  saved  for  him  till  it 's 
proved  as  it  won't  be  lost." 

"  Ay,  that 's  a  pleasant  sort  o'  risk,  that  is,"  said  Mr.  Glegg, 
indiscreetly  winking  at  Tom,  who  couldn't  avoid  smiling. 
But  Bob  stemmed  the  injured  lady's  outburst. 

"  Ay,  mum,"  he  said,  admiringly,  "  you  know  what 's  what 
—  you  do.  An'  it 's  nothing  but  fair.  You  see  how  the  first 
bit  of  a  job  answers,  an'  then  you  '11  come  down  handsome. 
Lors,  it 's  a  fine  thing  to  liev  good  kin.  I  got  my  bit  of  a  nest- 
egg,  as  the  master  calls  it,  all  by  my  own  sharpness  —  ten  suv- 
reigns  it  was  —  wi'  dousing  the  fire  at  Torry's  mill,  an'  it 's 
growed  an'  growed  by  a  bit  an'  a  bit,  till  I  'n  got  a  matter  o' 
thirty  pound  to  lay  out,  besides  makin'  my  mother  comfor'ble. 
I  should  get  more,  on'y  I  'm  such  a  soft  wi'  the  women  —  I 
can't  help  lettin'  'em  hev  such  good  bargains.  There  's  this 
bundle,  now  "  (thumping  it  lustily),  "  any  other  chap  'ud  make 
a  pretty  penny  out  on  it.  But  me  !  .  .  .  lors,  I  shall  sell 
'em  for  pretty  near  what  I  paid  for  'em." 

"  Have  you  got  a  bit  of  good  net,  now  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  in 
a  patronizing  tone,  moving  from  the  tea-table,  and  folding  her 
napkin. 

"Eh,  mum,  not  what  you'd  think  it  worth  your  while  to 
look  at.  I'd  scorn  to  show  it  you.  It'ud  be  an  insult  to 
you." 

"  But  let  me  see,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  still  patronizing.  "  If 
they  're  damaged  goods,  they  're  like  enough  to  be  a  bit  the 
better  quality." 

"  No,  mum.  I  know  my  place,"  said  Bob,  lifting  up  his  pack 
and  shouldering  it.  "1  'm  not  going  t'  expose  the  lowness  o' 
my  trade  to  a  lady  like  you.  Packs  is  come  down  i'  the 
world :  it  'ud  cut  you  to  th'  heart  to  see  the  difference.  I  'm 
at  your  sarvice,  sir,  when  you  've  a  mind  to  go  and  see  Salt." 

"All  in  good  time,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  really  unwilling  to  cut 
short  the  dialogue.     "  Are  you  wanted  at  the  wharf,  Tom  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  I  left  Stowe  in  my  place." 

"Come,  put  down  your  pack,  and  let  me  see,"  said  Mrs. 


340  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Glegg,  drawing  a  chair  to  the  window,  and  seating  herself  with 
much  dignity. 

"  Don't  you  ask  it,  mum,"  said  Bob,  entreatingly. 

"  Make  no  more  words,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  severely,  "  but  do 
as  I  tell  you." 

"  Eh,  mum,  I  'm  loth  —  that  I  am,"  said  Bob,  slowly  deposit- 
ing his  pack  on  the  step,  and  beginning  to  untie  it  with  un- 
willing fingers.  "  But  what  you  order  shall  be  done  "  (much 
fumbling  in  pauses  between  the  sentences) .  "  It 's  not  as  you  '11 
buy  a  single  thing  on  me.  .  .  .  I  'd  be  sorry  for  you  to  do  it 
.  .  .  for  think  o'  them  poor  women  up  i'  the  villages  there,  as 
niver  stir  a  hundred  yards  from  home  ...  it  'ud  be  a  pity  for 
anybody  to  buy  up  their  bargains.  Lors,  it 's  as  good  as  a 
junketing  to  'em  when  they  see  me  wi'  my  pack  ...  an'  I 
shall  niver  pick  up  such  bargains  for  'em  again.  Least  ways, 
I  've  no  time  now,  for  I  'm  off  to  Laceham.  See  here,  now," 
Bob  went  on,  becoming  rapid  again,  and  holding  up  a  scarlet 
woollen  kerchief  with  an  embroidered  wreath  in  the  corner ; 
"  here 's  a  thing  to  make  a  lass's  mouth  water,  an'  on'y  two 
shillin'  —  an'  why  ?  Why,  'cause  there 's  a  bit  of  a  moth-hole 
i'  this  plain  end.  Lors,  I  think  the  moths  an'  the  mildew  was 
sent  by  Providence  o'  purpose  to  cheapen  the  goods  a  bit  for 
the  good-lookin'  women  as  han't  got  much  money.  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  the  moths,  now,  every  hankicher  on  'em  'ud 
ha'  gone  to  the  rich  handsome  ladies,  like  you,  mum,  at  five 
shillin'  apiece  —  not  a  farthin'  less  ;  but  what  does  the  moth 
do  ?  Why,  it  nibbles  off  three  shillin'  o'  the  price  i'  no  time, 
an'  then  a  packman  like  me  can  carry  't  to  the  poor  lasses  as 
live  under  the  dark  thack,  to  make  a  bit  of  a  blaze  for  'em. 
Lors,  it 's  as  good  as  a  fire,  to  look  at  such  a  hankicher ! " 

Bob  held  it  at  a  distance  for  admiration,  but  Mrs.  Glegg  said 
sharply  — 

"  Yes,  but  nobody  wants  a  fire  this  time  o'  year.  Put  these 
colored  things  by — let  me  look  at  your  nets,  if  you've 
got  'em." 

"Eh,  mum,  I  told  you  how  it  'ud  be,"  said  Bob,  flinging 
aside  the  colored  things  with  an  air  of  desperation.  "I 
knowed  it  'ud  turn  again'  you  to  look  at  such  paltry  articles 


WHEAT  AND  TAKES.  341 

as  1  carry.  Here  's  a  piece  o'  figured  musliu  now  —  what 's 
the  use  o'  you  lookin'  at  it  ?  You  might  as  well  look  at  poor 
folks's  victual,  mum  —  it  'ud  on'y  take  away  your  appetite. 
There 's  a  yard  i'  the  middle  on 't  as  the  pattern  "s  all  missed 

—  lors,  why  it 's  a  muslin  as  the  Princess  Victoree  might  ha' 
wore  —  but,"  added  Bob,  flinging  it  behind  him  on  to  the  turf, 
as  if  to  save  Mrs.  Glegg's  eyes,  "  it  '11  be  bought  up  by  the 
huckster's  wife  at  Fibb's  End  —  that's  where  it'll  go — ten 
shillin'  for  the  whole  lot  —  ten  yards,  countin'  the  damaged  un 

—  five-an' -twenty  shillin'  'ud  ha'  been  the  price  —  not  a  penny 
less.  But  I  '11  say  no  more,  mum  ;  it  "s  nothing  to  you  —  a 
piece  o'  muslin  like  that ;  you  can  afford  to  pay  three  times 
the  money  for  a  thing  as  is  n't  half  so  good.  It 's  nets  i/ou 
talked  on  ;  well,  I  've  got  a  piece  as  'ull  serve  you  to  make  fun 
on  —  " 

"  Bring  me  that  muslin,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg :  "  it 's  a  buff  — 
I  'm  partial  to  buff." 

"Eh,  but  a  damarjed  thing,"  said  Bob,  in  a  tone  of  deprecat- 
ing disgust.  "  You  'd  do  nothing  with  it,  mum  —  you  'd  give 
it  to  the  cook,  I  know  you  wfaild — an'  it 'ud  be  a  pity  — 
she'd  look  too  much  like  a  lady  in  it  —  it's  unbecoming  for 
servants." 

"  Fetch  it,  and  let  me  see  you  measure  it,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg, 
authoritatively. 

Bob  obeyed  with  ostentatious  reluctance. 

"  See  what  there  is  over  measure  ! "  he  said,  holding  forth 
the  extra  half-yard,  while  Mrs.  Glegg  was  busy  examining  the 
damaged  yard,  and  throwing  her  head  back  to  see  how  far  the 
fault  would  be  lost  on  a  distant  view. 

"  I  '11  give  you  six  shilling  for  it,"  she  said,  throwing  it  down 
with  the  air  of  a  person  who  mentions  an  ultimatum. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  now,  mum,  as  it  'ud  hurt  your  feelings  to 
look  at  my  pack  ?  That  damaged  bit 's  turned  your  stomach 
now  —  I  see  it  has,"  said  Bob,  wrapping  the  muslin  up  with 
the  utmost  quickness,  and  apparently  about  to  fasten  up  his 
pack.  "  You  're  used  to  seein'  a  different  sort  o'  article  carried 
by  packmen,  when  you  lived  at  the  stone  house.  Packs  is 
come  down  i'  the  world ;  I  told  you  that :  my  goods  are  for 


842  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

common  folks.  Mrs.  Pepper  'ull  give  me  ten  shillin'  foi-  that 
muslin,  an'  be  sorry  as  I  did  n't  ask  her  more.  Such  articles 
answer  i'  the  wearin'  —  they  keep  their  color  till  the  threads 
melt  away  i'  the  wash-tub,  an'  that  won't  be  while  I'm  a, 
young  un." 

"Well,  seven  shilling, '^  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 

"Put  it  out  o'  your  mind,  mum,  new  do,"  said  Bob.  "  Here 's 
a  bit  o'  net,  then,  for  you  to  look  at  before  I  tie  up  my  pack  : 
just  for  you  to  see  what  my  trade  's  come  to  :  spotted  and 
sprigged,  you  see,  beautiful,  but  yallow  —  's  been  lyin'  by  an' 
got  the  wrong  color.  1  could  niver  ha'  bought  such  net,  if  it 
hadn't  been  yallow.  Lors,  it's  took  me  a  deal  o'  study  to 
know  the  vally  o'  such  articles  ;  when  I  begun  to  carry  a  pack, 
I  was  as  ignirant  as  a  pig  —  net  or  calico  was  all  the  same 
to  me.  I  thought  them  things  the  most  vally  as  was  the  thick- 
est. I  was  took  in  dreadful  —  for  I  'm  a  straightforrard  chap 
—  up  to  no  tricks,  mum.  I  can  on'y  say  my  nose  is  my  own, 
for  if  I  went  beyond,  I  should  lose  myself  pretty  quick.  An' 
I  gev  five-an'-eightpence  for  that  piece  o'  net  —  if  I  was  to  tell 
y'  anything  else  I  should  be  tellm'  you  fibs  :  an'  five-an'-eight- 
pence I  shall  ask  for  it  —  not  a  penny  more  —  for  it 's  a 
woman's  article,  an'  I  like  to  'commodate  the  women.  Five- 
an'-eightpence  for  six  yards  —  as  cheap  as  if  it  was  only  the 
dirt  on  it  as  was  paid  for." 

"I  don't  mind  having  three  yards  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 

"Why,  there's  but  six  all  together,"  said  Bob.  "No,  mum, 
it  is  n't  worth  your  while  ;  you  can  go  to  the  shop  to-morrow 
an'  get  the  same  pattern  ready  whitened.  It 's  on'y  three 
times  the  money  —  what 's  that  to  a  lady  like  you  ? "  He 
gave  an  emphatic  tie  to  his  bundle. 

"Come,  lay  me  out  that  muslin,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  Here 's 
eight  shilling  for  it." 

"You  will  be  jokin',  mum,"  said  Bob,  looking  up  with  a 
laughing  face ;  "  I  see'd  you  was  a  pleasant  lady  when  I  fust 
come  to  the  wiuder." 

"Well,  put  it  me  out,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  peremptorily. 

"  But  if  I  let  you  have  it  for  ten  shillin',  mum,  you  '11  be  so 
good  as  not  tell  nobody.     I  should  be  a  laugbin'-stock  —  the 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  343 

trade  'ud  hoot  me,  if  they  knowed  it.  I  'm  obliged  to  make 
believe  as  I  ask  more  nor  I  do  for  my  goods,  else  they  'd  find 
out  I  was  a  flat.  I  'm  glad  you  don't  insist  upo'  buyin'  the 
net,  for  then  I  should  ha'  lost  my  two  best  bargains  for  Mrs. 
Pepper  o'  Fibb's  End  —  an'  she  's  a  rare  customer." 

''Let  me  look  at  the  net  again/'  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  yearning 
after  the  cheap  spots  and  sprigs,  now  they  were  vanishing. 

"  Well,  I  can't  deny  yoti,  mum,"  said  Bob,  lianding  it  out. 
"  Eh !  see  what  a  pattern  now  !  Real  Laceham  goods.  Now, 
this  is  the  sort  o'  article  I  'm  recommendin'  Mr.  Tom  to  send 
out.  Lors,  it 's  a  fine  thing  for  anybody  as  has  got  a  bit  o' 
money  —  these  Laceham  goods  'ud  make  it  breed  like  maggits. 
If  I  was  a  lady  wi'  a  bit  o'  money  !  —  why,  I  know  one  as  put 
thirty  pound  into  them  goods  —  a  lady  wi'  a  cork  leg ;  but  as 
sharp  —  you  would  n't  catch  her  runnin'  her  head  into  a  sack : 
she  'd  see  her  way  clear  out  o'  anything  afore  she  'd  be  in  a 
hurry  to  start.  Well,  she  let  out  thirty  pound  to  a  young  man 
in  the  drapering  line,  and  he  laid  it  out  i'  Laceham  goods,  an' 
a  shupercargo  o'  ray  acquinetance  (not  Salt)  took  'em  out,  an' 
she  got  her  eight  per  zent  fust  go  off  —  an'  now  you  can't  hold 
her  but  she  must  be  sendin'  out  carguies  wi'  every  ship,  till 
she 's  gettin'  as  rich  as  a  Jew.  Bucks  her  name  is  —  she 
does  n't  live  i'  this  town.  Now  then,  mum,  if  you  '11  please  to 
give  me  the  net  —  " 

"  Here  's  fifteen  shilling,  then,  for  the  two,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 
"  But  it 's  a  shameful  price." 

"Nay,  mum,  you'll  niver  say  that  when  you're  upo'  your 
knees  i'  church  i'  five  years'  time.  I  'm  makin'  you  a  present 
o'  th'  articles  —  I  am,  indeed.  That  eightpence  shaves  off  my 
profit  as  clean  as  a  razor.  Now  then,  sir,"  continued  Bob, 
shouldering  his  pack,  "if  you  please,  I'll  be  glad  to  go  and 
see  about  makin'  Mr.  Tom's  fortin.  Eh,  I  wish  I  'd  got  an- 
other twenty  pound  to  lay  out  for  mysen  :  I  should  n't  stay  to 
say  my  Catechism  afore  I  knowed  what  to  do  wi't." 

"  Stop  a  bit,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  the  lady,  as  her  husband  took 
his  hat,  "you  never  will  give  me  the  chance  o'  speaking. 
You'll  go  away  now,  and  finish  everything  about  this  busi- 
ness, and  come  back  and  tell  me  it 's  too  late  for  me  to  .syeak 


344  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

As  if  I  was  ii't  my  nephey's  own  aunt,  and  th'  head  o'  the 
family  on  his  mother's  side !  and  laid  by  guineas,  all  full 
weight,  for  him  —  as  he  '11  know  who  to  respect  when  I  'm 
laid  in  my  coffin." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  G.,  say  what  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  G.,  hastily. 

"  Well,  then,  I  desire  as  nothing  may  be  done  without  my 
knowing.  I  don't  say  as  I  shan't  venture  twenty  pounds, 
if  you  make  out  as  every tning's  right  and  safe.  And  if  I 
do,  Tom,"  concluded  Mrs.  Glegg,  turning  impressively  to  her 
nephew,  "  I  hope  you  '11  allays  bear  it  in  mind  and  be  grateful 
for  such  an  aunt.  I  mean  you  to  pay  me  interest,  you  know 
—  I  don't  approve  o'  giving ;  we  niver  looked  for  that  in  7n,y 
family." 

"Thank  you,  aunt,"  said  Tom,  rather  proudly.  "I  prefer 
having  the  money  only  lent  to  me." 

"  Very  well :  that 's  the  Dodson  sperrit,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg, 
rising  to  get  her  knitting  with  the  sense  that  any  further 
remark  after  this  would  be  bathos. 

Salt  —  that  eminently  "  briny  chap  "  —  having  been  dis- 
covered in  a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  at  the  Anchor  Tavern, 
Mr.  Glegg  commenced  inquiries  which  turned  out  satisfac- 
torily enough  to  warrant  the  advance  of  the  "  nest-egg,"  to 
which  aunt  Glegg  contributed  twenty  pounds;  and  in  this 
modest  beginning  you  see  the  ground  of  a  fact  which  might 
otherwise  surprise  you  —  namely,  Tom's  accumulation  of  a 
fund,  unknown  to  his  father,  that  promised  in  no  very  long 
time  to  meet  the  more  tardy  process  of  saving,  and  quite 
cover  the  deficit.  When  once  his  attention  had  been  turned 
to  this  source  of  gain,  Tom  determined  to  make  the  most  of 
it,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  obtaining  information  and  ex- 
tending his  small  enterprises.  In  not  telling  his  father,  he 
was  influenced  by  that  strange  mixture  of  opposite  feelings 
which  often  gives  equal  truth  to  those  who  blame  an  action 
and  those  who  admire  it :  partly,  it  was  that  disinclination 
to  confidence  which  is  seen  between  near  kindred  —  that 
family  repulsion  which  spoils  the  most  sacred  relations  of  our 
lives ;  partly,  it  was  the  desire  to  surprise  his  father  with 
a  great  ioy.     He  did  not  see  that  it  would  have  been  bettei 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  345 

to   soothe   the   interval   with  a  new  hope,  and   prevent  the 
delirium  of  a  too  sudden  elation. 

At  the  time  of  Maggie's  iirst  meeting  with  Philip,  Tom  had 
already  nearly  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  his  own  capital ; 
and  while  they  were  walking  by  the  evening  light  in  the  Eed 
Deeps,  he,  by  the  same  evening  light,  was  riding  into  Laceham, 
proud  of  being  on  his  first  journey  on  behalf  of  Guest  &  Co., 
and  revolving  in  his  mind  all  the  chances  that  by  the  end  of 
another  year  he  should  have  doubled  his  gains,  lifted  off  the 
obloquy  of  debt  from  his  father's  name,  and  perhaps  —  for  he 
should  be  twenty-one  —  have  got  a  new  start  for  himself,  on  a 
higher  platform  of  employment.  Did  he  not  deserve  it  ?  He 
was  quite  sure  that  he  did. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   WAVERING   BALANCE. 

I  SAID  that  Maggie  went  home  that  evening  from  the  Eed 
Deeps  with  a  mental  conflict  already  begun.  You  have  seen 
clearly  enough,  in  her  interview  with  Philip,  what  that  conflict 
was.  Here  suddenly  was  an  opening  in  the  rocky  wall  which 
shut  in  the  narrow  valley  of  humiliation,  where  all  her  pros- 
pect was  the  remote  unfathomed  sky ;  and  some  of  the  memory- 
haunting  earthly  delights  were  no  longer  out  of  her  reach. 
She  might  have  books,  converse,  affection  —  she  might  hear 
tidings  of  the  world  from  which  her  mind  had  not  yet  lost  its 
sense  of  exile  ;  and  it  would  be  a  kindness  to  Philip  too,  who 
was  pitiable  —  clearly  not  happy ;  and  perhaps  here  was  an 
opportunity  indicated  for  making  her  mind  more  worthy  of  its 
highest  service  —  perhaps  the  noblest,  completest  devoutness 
could  hardly  exist  without  some  width  of  knowledge  :  miist 
she  always  live  in  this  resigned  imprisonment  ?  It  was  so 
blameless,  so  good  a  thing  that  there  should  be  friendship 
between  her  and  Philip ;  the  motives  that  forbade  it  were  so 
unreasonable  —  so  unchristian  !     But  the  severe  monotonous 


346  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

warning  came  again  and  again  — that  she  was  losing  the  siiit 
plicity  and  clearness  of  her  life  by  admitting  a  ground  of  con- 
cealment, and  that,  by  forsaking  the  simple  rule  of  renunciation, 
she  was  throwing  herself  under  the  seductive  guidance  of  illim- 
itable wants.  She  thought  she  had  won  strength  to  obey  the 
warning  before  she  allowed  herself  the  next  week  to  turn  her 
steps  in  the  evening  to  the  Red  Deeps.  But  while  she  was 
resolved  to  say  an  affectionate  farewell  to  Philip,  how  she 
looked  forward  to  that  evening  walk  in  the  still,  fleckered 
shade  of  the  hollows,  away  from  all  that  was  harsh  and  un- 
lovely ;  to  the  affectionate  admiring  looks  that  would  meet 
her ;  to  the  sense  of  comradeship  that  childish  memories  would 
give  to  wiser,  older  talk ;  to  the  certainty  that  Philip  would 
care  to  hear  everything  she  said,  which  no  one  else  cared  for ! 
It  was  a  half-hour  that  it  would  be  very  hard  to  turn  her  back 
upon,  with  the  sense  that  there  would  be  no  other  like  it. 
Yet  she  said  what  she  meant  to  say ;  she  looked  firm  as  well 
as  sad. 

"Philip,  I  have  made  up  my  mind — it  is  right  that  we 
should  give  each  other  up,  in  everything  but  memory.  I  could 
not  see  you  without  concealment  —  stay,  I  know  what  you  are 
going  to  say  —  it  is  other  people's  wrong  feelings  that  make 
concealment  necessary;  but  concealment  is  bad,  however  it 
may  be  caused.  I  feel  that  it  would  be  bad  for  me,  for  us 
both.  And  then,  if  our  secret  were  discovered,  there  would 
be  nothing  but  misery  —  dreadful  anger ;  and  then  we  must 
part  after  all,  and  it  would  be  harder,  when  we  were  used  to 
seeing  each  other." 

Philip's  face  had  flushed,  and  there  was  a  momentary  eager- 
ness of  expression,  as  if  he  had  been  about  to  resist  this  deci- 
sion with  all  his  might.  But  he  controlled  himself,  and  said, 
with  assumed  calmness,  "  Well,  Maggie,  if  we  must  part,  let 
us  try  and  forget  it  for  one  half-hour  :  let  us  talk  together  a 
little  while  —  for  the  last  time." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  Maggie  felt  no  reason  to  withdraw 
it :  his  quietness  made  her  all  the  more  sure  she  had  given  him 
great  pain,  and  she  wanted  to  show  him  how  unwillingly  she 
had  given  it.     They  walked  together  hand  in  hand  in  silence. 


WHEAT   AND  TARES.  347 

"  Let  us  sit  clown  in  the  hollow,"  said  Pliilip,  '•  whore  we 
stood  the  last  time.  See  how  the  dog-roses  have  strewed  the 
ground,  and  spread  their  opal  petals  over  it  I " 

They  sat  down  at  the  roots  of  the  slanting  ash. 

"I've  begun  my  picture  of  you  among  the  Scotch  firs, 
Maggie,"  said  Philip,  "  so  you  must  let  me  study  your  face  a 
little,  while  you  stay  —  since  I  am  not  to  see  it  again.  Please 
turn  your  head  this  way." 

This  was  said  in  an  entreating  voice,  and  it  would  have  been 
very  hard  of  Maggie  to  refuse.  The  full  lustrous  face,  with 
the  bright  black  coronet,  looked  down  like  that  of  a  divinity 
well  pleased  to  be  worshipped,  on  the  pale-hued,  small-featured 
face  that  was  turned  up  to  it. 

"I  shall  be  sitting  for  my  second  portrait  then,"  she  said, 
smiling.     "  Will  it  be  larger  than  the  other  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  much  larger.  It  is  an  oil-painting.  You  will  look 
like  a  tall  Hamadryad,  dark  and  strong  and  noble,  just  issued 
from  one  of  the  fir-trees,  when  the  stems  are  casting  theii- 
afternoon  shadows  on  the  grass." 

"  You  seem  to  think  more  of  painting  than  of  anything  now, 
Philip  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  said  Philip,  rather  sadly  ;  "  but  I  think  of 
too  many  things  —  sow  all  sorts  of  seeds,  and  get  no  great 
harvest  from  any  one  of  them.  I  'm  cursed  with  susceptibility 
in  every  direction,  and  effective  faculty  in  none.  I  care  for 
painting  and  music  ;  I  care  for  classic  literature,  and  mediaeval 
literature,  and  modern  literature  :  I  flutter  all  ways,  and  fly 
in  none." 

"  But  surely  that  is  a  happiness  to  have  so  many  tastes  — 
to  enjoy  so  many  beautiful  things — when  they  are  within 
your  reach,"  said  Maggie,  musingly.  "  It  always  seemed  to 
me  a  sort  of  clever  stupidity  only  to  have  one  sort  of  talent  — 
almost  like  a  carrier-pigeon." 

"It  might  be  a  happiness  to  have  many  tastes  if  I  were  like 
other  men,"  said  Philip,  bitterly.  "  I  might  get  some  power 
and  distinction  by  mere  mediocrity,  as  they  do  ;  at  least  I 
should  get  those  middling  satisfactions  which  niake  men  con- 
tented to  do  without  great  ones.     I  uiiglit  think  society  at 


348  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

St.  Ogg's  agreeable  then.  But  nothing  could  make  life  worth 
the  purchase-money  of  pain  to  me,  but  some  faculty  that  would 
lift  me  above  the  dead  level  of  provincial  existence.  Yes  — ■ 
there  is  one  thing :  a  passion  answers  as  well  as  a  faculty." 

Maggie  did  not  hear  the  last  words :  she  was  struggling 
against  the  consciousness  that  Philip's  words  had  set  her  own 
discontent  vibrating  again  as  it  used  to  do. 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  "  though  I  know 
so  much  less  than  you  do.  I  used  to  think  I  could  xiever  bear 
life  if  it  kept  on  being  the  same  every  day,  and  I  must  always 
be  doing  things  of  no  consequence,  and  never  know  anything 
greater.  But,  dear  Philip,  I  think  we  are  only  like  children, 
that  some  one  who  is  wiser  is  taking  care  of.  Is  it  not  right 
to  resign  ourselves  entirely,  whatever  may  be  denied  us  ?  I 
have  found  great  peace  in  that  for  the  last  two  or  three  years 
—  even  joy  in  subduing  my  own  will." 

"■  Yes,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  vehemently ;  "  and  you  are 
shutting  yourself  up  in  a  narrow  self-delusive  fanaticism, 
which  is  only  a  way  of  escaping  pain  by  starving  into  dulness 
all  the  highest  powers  of  your  nature.  Joy  and  peace  are  not 
resignation :  resignation  is  the  willing  endurance  of  a  pain 
that  is  not  allayed  —  that  you  don't  expect  to  be  allayed. 
Stupefaction  is  not  resignation  :  and  it  is  stupefaction  to  re- 
main in  ignorance  —  to  shut  up  all  the  avenues  by  which  the 
life  of  your  fellow-men  might  become  known  to  you.  I  am 
not  resigned  :  I  am  not  sure  that  life  is  long  enough  to  learn 
that  lesson.  Yoa  are  not  resigned :  you  are  only  trying  to 
stupefy  yourself." 

Maggie's  lips  trembled ;  she  felt  there  was  some  truth  in 
what  Philip  said,  and  yet  there  was  a  deeper  consciousness 
that,  for  any  immediate  application  it  had  to  her  conduct,  it 
was  no  better  than  falsity.  Her  double  impression  corre- 
sponded to  the  double  impulse  of  the  speaker.  Philip  seri- 
ously believed  what  he  said,  but  he  said  it  Avith  vehemence 
because  it  made  an  argument  against  the  resolution  that 
opposed  his  wishes.  But  Maggie's  face,  made  more  childlike 
by  the  gathering  tears,  touched  him  with  a  tenderer,  less 
egoistic  feeling      He  took  her  hand  and  said  gently  — 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  349 

"  Don't  let  us  think  of  such  things  in  this  short  half-hour, 
Maggie.  Let  us  only  care  about  being  together.  .  .  .  We  shall 
be  friends  in  spite  of  separation.  .  .  .  We  shall  always  think 
of  each  other.  I  shall  be  glad  to  live  as  long  as  you  are 
alive,  because  I  shall  think  there  may  always  come  a  time 
when  I  can  —  when  you  will  let  me  help  you  in  some  way." 

"  What  a  dear,  good  brother  you  would  have  been,  Philip," 
said  Maggie,  smiling  through  the  haze  of  tears.  "  I  think  you 
would  have  made  as  much  fuss  about  me,  and  been  as  pleased 
for  me  to  love  you,  as  would  have  satisfied  even  me.  You 
would  have  loved  me  well  enough  to  bear  with  me,  and  forgive 
me  everything.  That  was  what  I  always  longed  that  Tom 
should  do.  I  was  never  satisfied  with  a  little  of  anything. 
That  is  why  it  is  better  for  me  to  do  without  earthly  happi- 
ness altogether.  ...  I  never  felt  that  I  had  enough  music  — 
I  wanted  more  instruments  playing  together  —  I  wanted  voices 
to  be  fuller  and  deeper.  Do  you  ever  sing  now,  Philip  ?  "  she 
added  abruptly,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  what  went  before. 

"  Yes,"  lie  said,  "  every  day,  almost.  But  my  voice  is  only 
middling  —  like  everything  else  in  me." 

"  Oh,  sing  me  something  —  just  one  song.  I  may  listen  to 
that  before  I  go  —  something  you  used  to  sing  at  Lorton  on  a 
Saturday  afternoon,  when  we  had  the  drawing-room  all  to  our- 
selves, and  I  put  my  apron  over  my  head  to  listen." 

"  /  know,"  said  Philip,  and  Maggie  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands,  while  he  sang  sotto  voce,  "  Love  in  her  eyes  sits  play- 
ing ; "  and  then  said,  "  That 's  it,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  I  won't  stay,"  said  Maggie,  starting  up.  "It  will 
only  haunt  me.     Let  us  walk,  Philip.     I  must  go  home." 

She  moved  away,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  rise  and  follow 
her. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  "  don't  per- 
sist in  this  wilful,  senseless  privation.  It  makes  me  wretched 
to  see  you  benumbing  and  cramping  your  nature  in  this  way. 
You  were  so  full  of  life  when  you  were  a  child :  I  thought 
you  would  be  a  brilliant  woman  —  all  wit  and  bright  imagiua' 
tion.  And  it  flashes  out  in  your  face  still,  until  you  draw 
that  veil  of  dull  quiescence  over  it." 


d50  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  so  bitterly  to  me,  Philip  ? "  said 
Maggie. 

*'  Because  I  foresee  it  will  not  eud  well :  you  can  never 
carry  on  this  self-torture." 

"I  shall  have  strength  given  me,"  said  Maggie,  tremulously. 

"  No,  you  will  not,  Maggie  :  no  one  has  strength  given  to 
do  what  is  unnatural.  It  is  mere  cowardice  to  seek  safety  in 
negations.  No  character  becomes  strong  in  that  way.  You 
will  be  thrown  into  the  world  some  day,  and  then  every 
rational  satisfaction  of  your  nature  that  you  deny  now,  will 
assault  you  like  a  savage  appetite." 

Maggie  started  and  paused,  looking  at  Philip  with  alarm  in 
her  face. 

"  Philip,  how  dare  you  shake  me  in  this  way  ?  You  are  a 
tempter." 

"  No,  I  am  not ;  but  love  gives  insight,  Maggie,  and  insight 
often  gives  foreboding.  Listen  to  me  —  let  me  supply  you  with 
books ;  do  let  me  see  you  sometimes  —  be  your  brother  and 
teacher,  as  you  said  at  Lorton.  It  is  less  wrong  that  you  should 
see  me  than  that  you  should  be  committing  this  long  suicide." 

Maggie  felt  unable  to  speak.  She  shook  her  head  and 
walked  on  in  silence,  till  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  Scotch 
firs,  and  she  put  out  her  hand  in  sign  of  parting. 

"  Do  you  banish  me  from  this  place  forever,  then,  Maggie  ? 
Surely  I  may  come  and  walk  in  it  sometimes  ?  If  I  meet  you 
by  chance,  there  is  no  concealment  in  that  ?  " 

It  is  the  moment  when  our  resolution  seems  about  to  be- 
come irrevocable  —  when  the  fatal  iron  gates  are  about  to 
close  upon  us  —  that  tests  our  strength.  Then,  after  hours  of 
clear  reasoning  and  firm  conviction,  we  snatch  at  any  sophistry 
that  will  nullify  our  long  struggles,  and  bring  us  the  defeat 
that  we  love  better  than  victory. 

Maggie  felt  her  heart  leap  at  this  subterfuge  of  Philip's, 
and  there  passed  over  her  face  that  almost  imperceptible 
shock  which  accompanies  any  relief.  He  saw  it,  and  they 
parted  in  silence. 

Philip's  sense  of  the  situation  was  too  complete  for  hira  not 
to  be  visited  with  glancing  fears  lest  he  had  been  intervening 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  351 

too  presumptuously  in  the  action  of  Maggie's  consfience  — 
perhaps  for  a  selfish  end.  But  no  !  —  he  persuaded  himself 
his  end  was  not  selfish.  He  had  little  hope  that  ^laggie 
would  ever  return  the  strong  feeling  he  had  for  her ;  and  it 
must  be  better  for  Maggie's  future  life,  when  these  petty 
family  obstacles  to  her  freedom  had  disappeared,  that  the 
present  should  not  be  entirely  sacrificed,  and  that  she  should 
have  some  opportunity  of  culture  —  some  interchange  with  a 
mind  above  the  vulgar  level  of  those  she  was  now  condemned 
to  live  with.  If  we  only  look  far  enough  off  for  the  conse- 
quence of  our  actions,  we  can  always  find  some  point  in  the 
combination  of  results  by  which  those  actions  can  be  justified  : 
by  adopting  the  point  of  view  of  a  Providence  who  arranges 
results,  or  of  a  philosopher  who  traces  them,  we  shall  find  it 
possible  to  obtain  perfect  complacency  in  choosing  to  do  what 
is  most  agreeable  to  us  in  the  present  moment.  And  it  was 
in  this  way  that  Philip  justified  his  subtle  efforts  to  overcome 
Maggie's  true  prompting  against  a  concealment  that  would 
introduce  doubleness  into  her  own  mind,  and  might  cause  new 
misery  to  those  who  had  the  primary  natural  claim  on  her. 
But  there  was  a  surplus  of  passion  in  him  that  made  him 
half  independent  of  justifying  motives.  His  longing  to  see 
Maggie,  and  make  an  element  in  her  life,  had  in  it  some  of  that 
savage  impulse  to  snatch  an  offered  joy,  which  springs  from  a 
life  in  which  the  mental  and  bodily  constitution  have  made 
pain  predominate.  He  had  not  his  full  share  in  the  common 
good  of  men :  he  could  not  even  pass  muster  with  the  insig- 
nificant, but  must  be  singled  out  for  pity,  and  excepted  from 
what  was  a  matter  of  course  with  others.  Even  to  INfaggie  he 
was  an  exception  :  it  was  clear  that  the  thought  of  his  being 
her  lover  had  never  entered  her  mind. 

Do  not  think  too  hardly  of  Philip.  Ugly  and  deformed 
people  have  great  need  of  unusual  virtues,  because  they  are 
likely  to  be  extremely  uncomfortable  without  them  :  but  the 
theory  that  unusual  virtues  spring  by  a  direct  consequence  out 
of  personal  disadvantages,  as  animals  get  thicker  wool  in  severe 
climates,  is  perhaps  a  little  overstrained.  The  tem])tation8 
of  beauty  are  much  dwelt  upon,  but  I  fancy  they  only  bear  the 


352  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

same  relation  to  those  of  ugliness,  as  the  temptation  to  excesa 
at  a  feast,  where  the  delights  are  varied  for  eye  and  ear  as 
well  as  palate,  bears  to  the  temptations  that  assail  the  despe- 
ration of  hunger.  Does  not  the  Hunger  Tower  stand  as  the 
type  of  the  utmost  trial  to  what  is  human  in  us  ? 

Philip  had  never  been  soothed  by  that  mother's  love  which 
flows  out  to  us  in  the  greater  abundance  because  our  need  is 
greater,  which  clings  to  us  the  more  tenderly  because  we  are 
the  less  likely  to  be  winners  in  the  game  of  life ;  and  the 
sense  of  his  father's  affection  and  indulgence  towards  him  was 
marred  by  the  keener  perception  of  his  father's  faults.  Kept 
aloof  from  all  practical  life  as  Philip  had  been,  and  by  nature 
half-feminine  in  sensitiveness,  he  had  some  of  the  woman's 
intolerant  repulsion  towards  worldlmess  and  the  deliberate 
pursuit  of  sensual  enjoyment ;  and  this  one  strong  natural  tie 
in  his  life  —  his  relation  as  a  son  —  was  like  an  aching  limb 
to  him.  Perhaps  there  is  inevitably  something  morbid  in  a 
human  being  who  is  in  any  way  unfavorably  excepted  from 
ordinary  conditions,  until  the  good  force  has  had  time  to  tri- 
umph ;  and  it  has  rarely  had  time  for  that  at  two-and-twenty. 
That  force  was  present  in  Philip  in  much  strength,  but  the  sun 
himself  looks  feeble  through  the  morning  mists. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

ANOTHER    LOVE-SCENE. 

Early  in  the  following  April,  nearly  a  year  after  that  dubi- 
ous parting  you  have  just  witnessed,  you  may,  if  you  like, 
again  see  Maggie  entering  the  Red  Deeps  through  the  group 
of  Scotch  firs.  But  it  is  early  afternoon  and  not  evening,  and 
the  edge  of  sharpness  in  the  spring  air  makes  her  draw  her 
large  shawl  close  about  her  and  trip  along  rather  quickly ; 
though  she  looks  round,  as  usual,  that  she  may  take  in  the 
sight  of  her  beloved  trees.  There  is  a  more  eager,  inquir- 
ing look  in  her  eyes  than  there  was  last  June,  and  a  smile  is 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  353 

hovering  about  her  lips,  as  if  some  playful  speech  were  awaiting 
the  right  hearer      The  hearer  was  not  long  in  appearing. 

"  Take  back  your  '  Corinne,' "  said  Maggie,  drawing  a  book 
from  under  her  shawl.  "  You  were  right  in  telling  me  she 
would  do  me  no  good;  but  you  were  wrong  in  thinking  I 
should  wish  to  be  like  her." 

"  Would  n't  you  really  like  to  be  a  tenth  Muse,  then,  Mag- 
gie ?  "  said  Philip,  looking  up  m  her  face  as  wc  look  at  a  first 
parting  in  the  clouds  that  promises  us  a  bright  heaven  once 
more. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Maggie,  laughing,  "The  Muses  were 
uncomfortable  goddesses,  I  think  —  obliged  always  to  carry 
rolls  and  musical  instruments  about  with  them.  If  I  carried 
a  harp  m  this  climate,  you  know,  I  must  have  a  green  baize 
cover  for  it  —  and  I  should  be  sure  to  leave  it  behind  me  by 
mistake." 

"  You  agree  with  me  in  not  liking  Corinne,  then  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  finish  the  book,"  said  Maggie.  "  As  soon  as  I 
came  to  the  blond-haired  young  lady  reading  in  the  park,  I 
shut  it  up,  and  determined  to  read  no  further.  I  foresaw  that 
that  light-complexioned  girl  would  win  away  all  the  love  from 
Corinne  and  make  her  miserable.  I  'm  determined  to  read  no 
more  books  where  the  blond-haired  women  carry  away  all  the 
happiness.  I  should  begin  to  have  a  prejudice  against  them. 
If  you  could  give  me  some  story,  now,  where  the  dark  woman 
triumphs,  it  would  restore  the  balance.  I  want  to  avenge 
Kebecca  and  Flora  Maclvor,  and  Minna  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  dark  unhappy  ones.  Since  you  are  my  tutor,  you  ought  to 
preserve  my  mind  from  prejudices  —  you  are  always  arguing 
against  prejudices." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  will  avenge  the  dark  women  in  your 
own  person,  and  carry  away  all  the  love  from  your  cousin 
Lucy.  She  is  sure  to  have  some  handsome  young  man  of 
St.  Ogg's  at  her  feet  now :  and  yon  have  only  to  shine  upon 
him  —  your  fair  little  cousin  will  be  quite  quenched  in  your 
beams." 

"  Philip,  that  is  not  pretty  of  you,  to  apply  my  nonsense  to 
anything  real,"  said  Maggie,  looking  hurt.     "  As  if  I,  with  my 

VOL.    II.  ^ 


354  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

old  gowns  and  want  of  all  accomplishments,  could  be  a  rival  of 
dear  little  Lucy,  who  knows  and  does  all  sorts  of  charming 
things,  and  is  ten  times  prettier  than  I  am  —  even  if  I  were 
odious  and  base  enough  to  wish  to  be  her  rival.  Besides,  I 
never  go  to  aunt  Deane's  when  any  one  is  there:  it  is  only 
because  dear  Lucy  is  good,  and  loves  me,  that  she  comes  to  see 
me,  and  will  have  me  go  to  see  her  sometimes." 

"  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  with  surprise,  "  it  is  not  like  you 
to  take  playfulness  literally.  You  must  have  been  in  St. 
Ogg's  this  morning,  and  brought  away  a  slight  infection  of 
dulness." 

"Well,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  "if  you  meant  that  for  a 
joke,  it  was  a  poor  one ;  but  I  thought  it  was  a  very  good 
reproof.  I  thought  you  wanted  to  remind  me  that  I  am  vain, 
and  wish  every  one  to  admire  me  most.  But  it  is  n't  for  that, 
that  I  'm  jealous  for  the  dark  women  —  not  because  I  'm  dark 
myself.  It 's  because  I  always  care  the  most  about  the  un- 
happy people :  if  the  blond  girl  were  forsaken,  I  should  like 
her  best.  I  always  take  the  side  of  the  rejected  lover  in  the 
stories." 

"Then  you  would  never  have  the  heart  to  reject  one  your- 
self—  should  you,  Maggie  ?  "  said  Philip,  flushing  a  little. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  hesitatingly.  Then  with  a 
bright  smile  —  "I  think  perhaps  I  could  if  he  were  very 
conceited ;  and  yet,  if  he  got  extremely  humiliated  afterwards, 
I  should  relent." 

"I've  often  wondered,  Maggie,"  Philip  said,  with  some 
effort,  "  whether  you  would  n't  really  be  more  likely  to  love 
a  man  that  other  women  were  not  likely  to  love." 

"  That  would  depend  on  what  they  did  n't  like  him  for,"  said 
Maggie,  laughing.  "He  might  be  very  disagreeable.  He 
might  look  at  me  through  an  eye-glass  stuck  in  his  eye, 
making  a  hideous  face,  as  young  Torry  does.  I  should  think 
other  women  are  not  fond  of  that ;  but  I  never  felt  any  pity 
for  young  Torry.  I  've  never  any  pity  for  conceited  people, 
because  I  think  they  carry  their  comfort  about  with  them." 

"But  suppose,  Maggie  —  suppose  it  was  a  man  who  was 
not  conceited  —  who  felt  he  had  nothing  to  be  conceited  about 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  355 

—  who  had  been  marked  from  childhood  for  a  peculiar  kind 
of  suffering  —  and  to  whom  you  were  the  day-star  of  his  life  — 
who  loved  you,  worshipped  you,  so  entirely  that  he  felt  it  hai>- 
piness  enough  for  him  if  you  would  let  him  see  you  at  rare 
moments  —  " 

Philip  paused  with  a  pang  of  dread  lest  his  confession 
should  cut  short  this  very  happiness  —  a  j)ang  of  the  same 
dread  that  had  kept  his  love  mute  through  long  months.  A 
rush  of  self-consciousness  told  him  that  he  was  besotted  to 
have  said  all  this.  Maggie's  manner  this  morning  had  been  as 
unconstrained  and  indifferent  as  ever. 

But  she  was  not  looking  indifferent  now.  Struck  with  the 
unusual  emotion  in  Philip's  tone,  she  had  turned  quickly  to 
look  at  him,  and  as  he  went  on  speaking,  a  great  change  came 
over  her  face  —  a  flush  and  slight  spasm  of  the  features  such 
as  we  see  in  people  who  hear  some  news  that  will  require  them 
to  readjust  their  conceptions  of  the  past.  She  was  quite 
silent,  and,  walking  on  towards  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  she 
sat  down,  as  if  she  had  no  strength  to  spare  for  her  muscles. 
She  was  trembling. 

"Maggie,"  said  Philip,  getting  more  and  more  alarmed  in 
every  fresh  moment  of  silence,  "  I  was  a  fool  to  say  it  —  forget 
that  I  've  said  it.  I  shall  be  contented  if  things  can  be  as 
they  were." 

The  distress  with  which  he  spoke  urged  Maggie  to  say 
something.  "  I  am  so  surprised,  Philip  —  I  had  not  thought 
of  it."  And  the  effort  to  say  this  brought  the  tears  down 
too. 

« Has  it  made  you  hate  me,  Maggie  ? "  said  Philip,  im- 
petuously.    "  Do  you  think  I  'm  a  presumptuous  fool  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Philip ! "  said  Maggie,  "  how  can  you  think  I  have 
such  feelings  ?  —  as  if  I  were  not  grateful  for  any  love.  But 
...  but  I  had  never  thought  of  your  being  my  lover.  It 
seemed  so  far  off  — like  a  dream  — only  like  one  of  tlie  stories 
one  imagines  — that  I  should  ever  have  a  lover." 

"  Then  can  you  bear  to  think  of  me  as  your  lover,  Maggie  ?  " 
said  Philip,  seating  himself  by  her,  and  taking  her  hand,  in 
the  elation  of  a  sudden  hope.     "  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 


356  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Maggie  turned  rather  pale  :  this  direct  question  seemed  not 
easy  to  answer.  But  her  eyes  met  Philip's,  which  were  in  this 
moment  liquid  and  beautiful  with  beseeching  love.  She  spoke, 
with  hesitation,  yet  with  sweet,  simple,  girlish  tenderness. 

"  I  think  I  could  hardly  love  any  one  better  :  there  is  noth- 
ing but  what  I  love  you  for."  She  paused  a  little  while,  and 
then  added,  "But  it  will  be  better  for  us  not  to  say  any  more 
about  it  —  won't  it,  dear  Philip  ?  You  know  we  could  n't 
even  be  friends,  if  our  friendship  were  discovered.  I  have 
never  felt  that  I  was  right  in  giving  way  about  seeing  you  — 
though  it  has  been  so  precious  to  me  in  some  ways  ;  and  now 
the  fear  comes  upon  me  strongly  again,  that  it  will  lead  to 
evil." 

"  But  no  evil  has  come,  Maggie ;  and  if  you  had  been  guided 
by  that  fear  before,  you  would  only  have  lived  through  an- 
other dreary  benumbing  year,  instead  of  reviving  into  your 
real  self." 

Maggie  shook  her  head.  "  It  has  been  very  sweet,  I  know 
—  all  the  talking  together,  and  the  books,  and  the  feeling  that 
I  had  the  walk  to  look  forward  to,  when  I  could  tell  you  th** 
thoughts  that  had  come  into  my  head  while  I  was  away  from 
you.  But  it  has  made  me  restless :  it  has  made  me  think  a 
great  deal  about  the  world ;  and  I  have  impatient  thoughts 
again  —  I  get  weary  of  my  home  —  and  then  it  cuts  me  to  the 
heart  afterwards,  that  I  should  ever  have  felt  weary  of  my 
father  and  mother.  I  think  what  you  call  being  benumbed 
was  better  —  better  for  me  —  for  then  my  selfish  desires  were 
benumbed." 

Philip  had  risen  again,  and  was  walking  backwards  and 
forwards  impatiently. 

"  No,  Maggie,  you  have  wrong  ideas  of  self-conquest,  as  I  've 
often  told  you.  What  you  call  self-conquest  —  blinding  and 
deafening  yourself  to  all  but  one  train  of  impressions  —  is 
only  the  culture  of  monomania  in  a  nature  like  yours." 

He  had  spoken  with  some  irritation,  but  now  he  sat  down 
by  her  again,  and  took  her  hand. 

"Don't  think  of  the  past  now,  Maggie;  think  only  of  our 
love.     If  you  can  really  cling  to  me  with  all  your  heart,  ever>' 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  357 

obstacle  will  be  overcome  in  time :  we  need  only  wait.  I  can 
live  on  hope.  Look  at  me,  Maggie ;  tell  me  again,  it  is  possi- 
ble  for  you  to  love  me.  Don't  look  away  from  me  to  that 
cloven  tree ;  it  is  a  bad  omen." 

She  turned  her  large  dark  glance  upon  him  with  a  sad 
smile. 

"  Come,  Maggie,  say  one  kind  word,  or  else  you  were  better 
to  me  at  Lorton.  You  asked  me  if  I  should  like  you  to  kiss 
me  —  don't  you  remember?  —  and  you  promised  to  kiss  me 
when  you  met  me  again.     You  never  kept  the  promise." 

The  recollection  of  that  childish  time  came  as  a  sweet  re 
lief  to  Maggie.     It  made  the  present  moment  less  strange  to 
her.     She  kissed  him  almost  as  simply  and  quietly  as  she  had 
done  when  she  was  twelve  years  old.     Philip's  eyes  flashed 
with  delight,  but  his  next  words  were  words  of  discontent. 

"  You  don't  seem  happy  enough,  Maggie :  you  are  forcing 
yourself  to  say  you  love  me,  out  of  pity." 

"No,  Philip,"  said  Maggie,  shaking  her  head,  in  her  old 
childish  way;  "I'm  telling  you  the  truth.  It  is  all  new  and 
strange  to  me ;  but  I  don't  think  I  could  love  any  one  better 
than  I  love  you.  I  should  like  always  to  live  with  you  —  to 
make  you  happy.  I  have  always  been  happy  when  I  have 
been  Avith  you.  There  is  only  one  thing  I  will  not  do  for  your 
sake :  I  will  never  do  anything  to  wound  my  father.  You 
must  never  ask  that  from  me." 

"No,  Maggie:  I  will  ask  nothing  —  I  will  bear  everything 
—  I  '11  wait  another  year  only  for  a  kiss,  if  you  will  only  give 
me  the  first  place  in  your  heart." 

"No,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  "I  won't  make  you  wait  so  long 
as  that."  But  then,  looking  serious  again,  she  added,  as  she 
rose  from  her  seat  — 

"But  what  would  your  own  father  say,  Philip  ?  Oh,  it  is 
quite  impossible  we  can  ever  be  more  than  friends  —  brother 
and  sister  in  secret,  as  we  have  been.  Let  us  give  up  thinking 
of  everything  else." 

"No,  Maggie,  I  can't  give  you  up  — unless  you  are  deceiving 
me  —  unless  you  really  only  care  for  me  as  if  I  were  your 
brother.     Tell  me  the  truth." 


358  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  Philip.  What  happiness  have  1  ever  had  so 
great  as  being  with  you  ?  —  since  I  was  a  little  girl — the  days 
Tom  was  good  to  me.  And  your  mind  is  a  sort  of  world  to 
me:  you  can  tell  me  all  I  want  to  know.  I  think  I  should 
never  be  tired  of  being  with  you." 

They  were  walking  hand  in  hand,  looking  at  each  other; 
Maggie,  indeed,  was  hurrying  along,  for  she  felt  it  time  to  be 
gone.  But  the  sense  that  their  parting  was  near,  made  her 
more  anxious  lest  she  should  have  unintentionally  left  some 
painful  impression  on  Philip's  mind.  It  was  one  of  those 
dangerous  moments  wdien  speech  is  at  once  sincere  and  de- 
ceptive —  when  feeling,  rising  high  above  its  average  depth, 
leaves  flood-marks  which  are  never  reached  again. 

They  stopped  to  part  among  the  Scotch  firs. 

"  Then  my  life  will  be  filled  with  hope,  Maggie  —  and  I 
shall  be  happier  than  other  men,  in  spite  of  all  ?  We  do  be- 
long to  each  other  —  for  always  —  whether  we  are  apart  or 
together  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Philip  :  I  should  like  never  to  part :  I  should  like  to 
make  your  life  very  happy." 

"  I  am  waiting  for  something  else  —  I  wonder  whether  it 
will  come." 

Maggie  smiled,  with  glistening  tears,  and  then  stooped  her 
tall  head  to  kiss  the  pale  face  that  was  full  of  pleading,  timid 
love' — like  a  woman's. 

She  had  a  moment  of  real  happiness  then  —  a  moment  of 
belief  that,  if  there  were  sacrifice  in  this  love,  it  was  all  the 
richer  and  more  satisfying. 

She  turned  away  and  hurried  home,  feeling  that  in  the  hour 
since  she  had  trodden  this  road  before,  a  new  era  had  begun 
for  her.  The  tissue  of  vague  dreams  must  now  get  narrower 
and  narrower,  and  all  the  threads  of  thought  and  emotion  be 
gradually  absorbed  in  the  woof  of  her  actual  daily  life. 


WHEAT  AND  TAliES.  859 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    CLOVEN    TREE. 

Secrets  are  rarely  betrayed  or  discovered  according  to  any 
programme  our  fear  has  sketched  out.  Fear  is  almost  always 
haunted  by  terrible  dramatic  scenes,  which  recur  in  spite  of 
the  best-argued  probabilities  against  them ;  and  during  a  year 
that  Maggie  had  had  the  burthen  of  concealment -on  her  mind, 
the  possibility  of  discovery  had  continually  presented  itself 
under  the  form  of  a  sudden  meeting  with  her  father  or  Tom 
when  she  was  walking  with  Philip  in  the  Red  Deeps.  She 
was  aware  that  this  was  not  one  of  the  most  likely  events ; 
but  it  was  the  scene  that  most  completely  symbolized  her 
inward  dread.  Those  slight  indirect  suggestions  which  are 
dependent  on  apparently  trivial  coincidences  and  incalculable 
states  of  mind,  are  the  favorite  machinery  of  Fact,  but  are 
not  the  stuff  in  which  imagination  is  apt  to  work. 

Certainly  one  of  the  persons  about  whom  Maggie's  fears 
were  furthest  from  troubling  themselves  was  her  aunt  Pullet, 
on  whom,  seeing  that  she  did  not  live  in  St.  Ogg's,  and  was 
neither  sharp-eyed  nor  sharp-tempered,  it  would  surely  have 
been  quite  whimsical  of  them  to  fix  rather  than  on  aunt 
Glegg.  And  yet  the  channel  of  fatality  —  the  pathway  of 
the  lightning  —  was  no  other  than  aunt  Pullet.  She  did  not 
live  at  St.  Ogg's,  but  the  road  from  Garum  Firs  lay  by  the 
Red  Deeps,  at  the  end  opposite  that  by  which  Maggie  entered. 

The  day  after  Maggie's  last  meeting  with  Philip,  being  a 
Sunday  on  which  Mr.  Pullet  was  bound  to  appear  in  funeral 
hat-band  and  scarf  at  St.  Ogg's  church,  Mrs.  Pullet  made  this 
the  occasion  of  dining  with  sister  Glegg,  and  taking  tea  with 
poor  sister  Tulliver.  Sunday  was  the  one  day  in  the  week  on 
which  Tom  was  at  home  in  tlie  afternoon ;  and  to-day  the 
brighter  spirits  he  had  been  in  of  late  had  flowed  over  in  un- 
usually cheerful  open  chat  with  his  father,  and  in  the  invita- 
tion, "Come,  Magsie,  you  come  too!"   when  he  strolled  out 


860  THE  MILL   ON  THE   FLOSS. 

with  his  mother  in  the  garden  to  see  the  advancing  cherry- 
blossoms.  He  had  been  better  pleased  with  Maggie  since  she 
had  been  less  odd  and  ascetic;  he  was  even  getting  rather 
proud  of  her :  several  persons  had  remarked  in  his  hearing 
that  his  sister  was  a  very  iine  girl.  To-day  there  was  a  pecul- 
iar brightness  in  her  face,  due  in  reality  to  an  under-current  of 
excitement,  which  had  as  much  doubt  and  pain  as  pleasure  in 
it ;  but  it  might  pass  for  a  sign  of  happiness. 

"You  look  very  well,  my  dear,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  shaking 
her  head  sadly,  as  they  sat  round  the  tea-table.  "  I  niver 
thought  your  girl  'ud  be  so  good-looking,  Bessy.  But  you 
must  wear  pink,  my  dear :  that  blue  thing  as  your  aunt  Glegg 
gave  you  turns  you  into  a  crowflower.  Jane  never  was  tasty. 
Why  don't  you  wear  that  gown  o'  mine  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  pretty  and  so  smart,  aunt.  I  think  it 's  too  showy 
for  me  —  at  least  for  my  other  clothes,  that  I  must  wear 
with  it." 

"  To  be  sure,  it  'ud  be  unbecoming  if  it  was  n't  well  known 
you  've  got  them  belonging  to  you  as  can  afford  to  give  you 
such  things  when  they  've  done  with  'em  themselves.  It 
stands  to  reason  I  must  give  my  own  niece  clothes  now  and 
then  —  such  things  as  /  buy  every  year,  and  never  wear  any- 
thing out.  And  as  for  Lucy,  there's  no  giving  to  her,  for 
she 's  got  everything  o'  the  choicest :  sister  Deane  may  well 
hold  her  head  up,  though  she  looks  dreadful  yallow,  poor 
thing  —  I  doubt  this  liver  complaint  'ull  carry  her  off.  That's 
what  this  new  vicar,  this  Dr.  Kenn,  said  in  the  funeral  sermon 
to-day." 

"  Ah,  he 's  a  wonderful  preacher,  by  all  account  —  is  n't  he, 
Sophy  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 

"Why,  Lucy  had  got  a  collar  on  this  blessed  day,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Pullet,  with  her  eyes  fixed  in  a  ruminating  man- 
ner, "  as  I  don't  say  I  have  n't  got  as  good,  but  I  must  look 
out  my  best  to  match  it." 

"  ]\Iiss  Lucy  's  called  the  bell  o'  St.  Ogg's,  they  say :  that 's 
a  cur'ous  word,"  observed  Mr.  Pullet,  on  whom  the  mysteries 
of  etymology  sometimes  fell  with  an  oppressive  weight. 

"Pooh!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  jealous  for  Maggie,  "she's  a 


WHEAT   AND   TAKES.  361 

email  thing,  not  much  of  a  figure.  But  fine  feathers  make  fine 
birds.  I  see  nothing  to  admire  so  much  iu  those  diminutive 
women;  they  look  silly  by  the  side  o'  the  men — out  o'  pro- 
portion. When  I  chose  my  wife,  I  chose  her  the  right  size  — 
neither  too  little  nor  too  big." 

The  poor  wife,  with  her  withered  beauty,  smiled  com- 
placently. 

"  But  the  men  are  n't  all  big,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  not  without 
some  self-reference ;  "a  young  fellow  may  be  good-looking  and 
yet  not  be  a  six-foot,  like  Master  Tom  here." 

"Ah,  it's  poor  talking  about  littleness  and  bigness,  —  any- 
body may  think  it 's  a  mercy  they  're  straight,"  said  aunt  Pul- 
let. "  There 's  that  mismade  son  o'  Lawyer  Wakem's  —  I  saw 
him  at  church  to-day.  Dear,  dear !  to  think  o'  the  property 
he  's  like  to  have  ;  and  they  say  he  's  very  queer  and  lonely  — 
does  n't  like  much  company.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  goes 
out  of  his  mind  ;  for  we  never  come  along  the  road  but  he  'a 
a-scrambling  out  o'  the  trees  and  brambles  at  the  Red  Deeps." 

This  wide  statement,  by  which  Mrs.  Pullet  represented  the 
fact  that  she  had  twice  seen  Philip  at  the  spot  indicated,  pro- 
duced an  effect  on  Maggie  which  was  all  the  stronger  because 
Tom  sat  opposite  her,  and  she  was  intensely  anxious  to  look 
indifferent.  At  Philip's  name  she  had  blushed,  and  the  blush 
deepened  every  instant  from  consciousness,  until  the  mention 
of  the  Red  Deeps  made  her  feel  as  if  the  whole  secret  were 
betrayed,  and  she  dared  not  even  hold  her  tea-spoon  lest  she 
should  show  how  she  trembled.  She  sat  with  her  hands 
clasped  under  the  table,  not  daring  to  look  round.  Happily, 
her  father  was  seated  on  the  same  side  with  herself,  beyond 
her  uncle  Pullet,  and  could  not  see  her  face  without  stooping 
forward.  Her  mother's  voice  brought  the  first  relief  —  turn- 
ing the  conversation ;  for  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  always  alarmed 
when  the  name  of  Wakem  was  mentioned  in  her  husband's 
presence.  Gradually  Maggie  recovered  composure  enough  to 
look  up;  her  eyes  met  Tom's,  but  he  turned  away  his  head 
immediately ;  and  she  went  to  bed  that  night  wondering  if  he 
had  gathered  any  suspicion  from  her  confusion.  Perhaps  not: 
perhaps  he  would  think  it  was  only  her  alarm  at  her  aunt's 


362  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

mention  of  Wakem  before  her  father :  that  was  the  interpre- 
tation her  mother  had  put  on  it.  To  her  father,  Wakem  was 
like  a  disfiguring  disease,  of  which  he  was  obliged  to  endure 
the  consciousness,  but  was  exasperated  to  have  the  existence 
recognized  by  others  ;  and  no  amount  of  sensitiveness  in  her 
about  her  father  could  be  surprising,  Maggie  thought. 

But  Tom  was  too  keen-sighted  to  rest  satisfied  with  such 
an  interpretation  :  he  had  seen  clearly  enough  that  there  was 
something  distinct  from  anxiety  about  her  father  in  Maggie's 
excessive  confusion.  In  trying  to  recall  all  the  details  that 
could  give  shape  to  his  suspicions,  he  remembered  only  lately 
hearing  his  mother  scold  Maggie  for  walking  in  the  Red  Deeps 
when  the  ground  was  wet,  and  bringing  home  shoes  clogged 
with  red  soil :  still  Tom,  retaining  all  his  old  repulsion  for 
Philip's  deformity,  shrank  from  attributing  to  his  sister  the 
probability  of  feeling  more  than  a  friendly  interest  in  such  an 
unfortunate  exception  to  the  common  run  of  men.  Tom's  was 
a  nature  which  had  a  sort  of  superstitious  repugnance  to 
everything  exceptional.  A  love  for  a  deformed  man  would 
be  odious  in  any  woman  —  in  a  sister  intolerable.  But  if  she 
had  been  carrying  on  any  kind  of  intercourse  whatever  with 
Philip,  a  stop  must  be  put  to  it  at  once  :  she  was  disobeying 
her  father's  strongest  feelings  and  her  brother's  express  com- 
mands, besides  compromising  herself  by  secret  meetings.  He 
left  home  the  next  morning  in  that  watchful  state  of  mind 
which  turns  the  most  ordinary  course  of  things  into  pregnant 
coincidences. 

That  afternoon,  about  half-past  three  o'clock,  Tom  was  stand- 
ing on  the  wharf,  talking  with  Bob  Jakin  about  the  probability 
of  the  good  ship  Adelaide  coming  in,  in  a  day  or  two,  with 
results  highly  important  to  both  of  them. 

"  Eh,"  said  Bob,  parenthetically,  as  he  looked  over  the  fields 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  "there  goes  that  crooked  young 
Wakem.  I  know  him  or  his  shadder  as  far  off  as  I  can  see 
'em ;  I  'm  allays  lighting  on  him  o'  that  side  the  river." 

A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  have  darted  through  Tom's 
mind.  ''  I  must  go,  Bob,"  he  said,  "  I  've  something  to  attend 
to/'  hurrying  off  to  the  warehouse,  where  he  left  notice  for 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  868 

some  one  to  take  his  place  —  he  was  called  away  home  on  per- 
emptory business. 

The  swiftest  pace  and  the  shortest  road  took  him  to  the  gate, 
and  he  was  pausing  to  open  it  deliberately,  tliat  lie  might  walk 
into  the  house  with  an  appearance  of  perfect  composure,  when 
Maggie  came  out  at  the  front  door  in  bonnet  and  shawl.  His 
conjecture  was  fulfilled,  and  he  waited  for  her  at  the  gate. 
She  started  violently  when  she  saw  him. 

"  Tom,  how  is  it  you  are  come  home  ?  Is  there  anything  the 
matter  ?  "     Maggie  spoke  in  a  low  tremulous  voice. 

"  I  'm  come  to  walk  with  you  to  the  Red  Deeps  and  meet 
Philip  Wakem,"  said  Tom,  the  central  fold  in  his  brow,  which 
had  become  habitual  with  him,  deepening  as  he  spoke. 

Maggie  stood  helpless  —  pale  and  cold.  By  some  means, 
then,  Tom  knew  everything.  At  last  she  said,  "  I  'm  not  go- 
ing," and  turned  round. 

"  Yes,  you  are ;  but  I  want  to  speak  to  you  first.  Where  is 
my  father  ?  " 

"  Out  on  horseback." 

"  And  my  mother  ?  " 

"In  the  yard,  I  think,  with  the  poultry." 

"  I  can  go  in,  then,  without  her  seeing  me  ?  " 

They  walked  in  together,  and  Tom,  entering  the  parlor,  said 
to  Maggie,  "  Come  in  here." 

She  obeyed,  and  he  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"Now,  Maggie,  tell  me  this  instant  everything  that  has 
passed  between  you  and  Philip  Wakem," 

"Does   my   father    know   anything?"   said    Maggie,   still 

trembling. 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  indignantly.  "  But  he  shall  know,  if  you 
a,ttempt  to  use  deceit  towards  me  any  further." 

"I  don't  wish  to  use  deceit,"  said  Maggie,  flushing  into  re- 
sentment at  hearing  this  word  applied  to  her  conduct. 

"  Tell  me  the  whole  truth,  then." 

"Perhaps  you  know  it." 

"  Never  mind  whether  I  know  it  or  not.  Tell  me  exactly 
what  has  happened,  or  my  father  shall  know  everything." 

"  I  tell  it  for  my  father's  sake,  then." 


364  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Yes,  it  becomes  you  to  profess  affection  for  3"our  father, 
when  you  have  despised  his  strongest  feelings." 

"  You  never  do  wrong,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  tauntingly. 
"Not  if  I  know  it,"  answered  Tom,  with  proud  sincerity. 
"But  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you  beyond  this  :  tell  me  what 
has  passed  between  you  and  Philip  Wakem.     When  did  you 
first  meet  him  in  the  Red  Deeps  ?  " 

"  A  year  ago,"  said  Maggie,  quietly.  Tom's  severity  gave 
her  a  certain  fund  of  defiance,  and  kept  her  sense  of  error  in 
abeyance.  "  You  need  ask  me  no  more  questions.  We  have 
been  friendly  a  year.  We  have  met  and  walked  together  often. 
He  has  lent  me  books." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Tom,  looking  straight  at  her  with  his 
frown. 

Maggie  paused  a  moment ;  then,  determined  to  make  an  end 
of  Tom's  right  to  accuse  her  of  deceit,  she  said,  haughtily  — 

"No,  not  quite  all.  On  Saturday  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
me.  I  did  n't  think  of  it  before  then  —  I  had  only  thought  of 
him  as  an  old  friend." 

"  And  you  encouraged  him  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  an  expression 
of  disgust. 

"  I  told  him  that  I  loved  him  too." 

Tom  was  silent  a  few  moments,  looking  on  the  ground  and 
frowning,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  At  last  he  looked  up 
and  said,  coldly  — 

"  Now,  then,  Maggie,  there  are  but  two  courses  for  you  to 
take;  either  you  vow  solemnly  to  me,  with  your  hand  on  my 
father's  Bible,  that  you  will  never  have  another  meeting  or 
speak  another  word  in  private  with  Philip  Wakem,  or  you  re- 
fuse, and  I  tell  my  father  everything ;  and  this  month,  when 
by  my  exertions  he  might  be  made  happy  once  more,  you  will 
cause  him  the  blow  of  knowing  that  you  are  a  disobedient 
deceitful  daughter,  who  throws  away  her  own  respectability  by 
clandestine  meetings  with  the  son  of  a  man  that  has  helped  to 
ruin  her  father.  Choose !  "  Tom  ended  with  cold  decision, 
going  up  to  the  large  Bible,  drawing  it  forward,  and  opening 
it  at  the  fly-leaf,  where  the  writing  was. 
It  was  a  crushing  alternative  to  Maggie. 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  3G5 

"Tom,"  she  said,  urged  out  of  pride  into  pleading,  "don't 
ask  me  that.  I  will  promise  you  to  give  up  all  intercourse 
with  Philip,  if  you  will  let  me  see  him  once,  or  even  only 
write  to  him  and  explain  everything  —  to  give  it  up  as  long  as 
it  would  ever  cause  any  pain  to  my  father  ...  I  ieel  some- 
thing for  Philip  too.     He  is  not  happy." 

''  I  don't  wish  to  hear  anything  of  your  feelings  ;  I  have 
said  exactly  what  I  mean :  choose  —  and  quickly,  lest  my 
mother  should  come  in." 

"  If  I  give  you  my  word,  that  will  be  as  strong  a  bond  to  me 
as  if  I  laid  my  hand  on  the  Bible.  I  don't  require  that  to 
bind  me." 

"  Do  what  /  require,"  said  Tom.  "  I  can't  trust  you,  Maggie. 
There  is  no  consistency  in  you.  Put  your  hand  on  this  Bible, 
and  say,  '  I  renounce  all  private  speech  and  intercourse  with 
Philip  Wakem  from  this  time  forth.'  Else  you  will  bring 
shame  on  us  all,  and  grief  on  my  father ;  and  what  is  the  use 
of  my  exerting  myself  and  giving  up  everything  else  for  the 
sake  of  paying  my  father's  debts,  if  you  are  to  bring  madness 
and  vexation  on  him,  just  when  he  might  be  easy  and  hold  up 
his  head  once  more  ?  " 

'^  Oh,  Tom  —  luill  the  debts  be  paid  soon  ?  "  said  Maggie, 
clasping  her  hands,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  joy  across  her 
wretchedness. 

"  If  things  turn  out  as  I  expect,"  said  Tom.  "  But,"  he  added, 
his  voice  trembling  with  indignation,  "  while  I  have  been  con- 
triving and  working  that  my  father  may  have  some  peace  of 
mind  before  he  dies  —  working  for  the  respectability  of  our 
family  —  you  have  done  all  you  can  to  destroy  both." 

Maggie  felt  a  deep  movement  of  compunction  :  for  the  mo- 
ment, her  mind  ceased  to  contend  against  what  she  felt  to  be 
cruel  and  unreasonable,  and  in  her  self-blame  she  justified  her 
brother. 

"  Tom,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  it  was  wrong  of  me  —  but 
I  was  so  lonely  —  and  I  was  sorry  for  Philip.  And  I  think 
enmity  and  hatred  are  wicked." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Tom.  "Your  duty  was  clear  enougL 
Say  no  more  ;  but  promise,  in  the  words  I  told  you." 


366  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  I  must  speak  to  Philip  once  more." 

"You  will  go  with  me  now  and  speak  to  him." 

"  I  give  you  my  word  not  to  meet  him  or  write  to  him  again 
without  yoi;r  knowledge.  That  is  the  only  thing  I  will  say. 
I  will  put  my  hand  on  the  Bible  if  you  like." 

'^  Say  it,  then." 

Maggie  laid  her  hand  on  the  page  of  manuscript  and  re- 
peated the  promise.  Tom  closed  the  book,  and  said,  "  Now, 
let  us  go." 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  they  walked  along.  Maggie  was 
suffering  in  anticipation  of  what  Philip  was  about  to  suffer, 
and  dreading  the  galling  words  that  wou.ld  fall  on  him  from 
Tom's  lips  ;  but  she  felt  it  was  in  vain  to  attempt  anything 
but  submission.  Tom  had  his  terrible  clutch  on  her  conscience 
and  her  deepest  dread :  she  writhed  under  the  demonstrable 
truth  of  the  character  he  had  given  to  her  conduct,  and  yet 
her  whole  soul  rebelled  against  it  as  unfair  from  its  incom- 
pleteness. He,  meanwhile,  felt  the  impetus  of  his  indignation 
diverted  towards  Philip.  He  did  not  know  how  much  of  an 
old  boyish  repulsion  and  of  mere  personal  pride  and  animosity 
was  concerned  in  the  bitter  severity  of  the  words  by  which  he 
meant  to  do  the  duty  of  a  son  and  a  brother.  Tom  was  Bot 
given  to  inquire  subtly  into  his  own  motives,  any  more  than 
into  other  matters  of  an  intangible  kind  ;  he  was  quite  sure 
that  his  own  motives  as  well  as  actions  were  good,  else  he 
would  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  them. 

Maggie's  only  hope  was  that  something  might,  for  the  first 
time,  have  prevented  Philip  from  coming.  Then  there  would 
be  delay  —  then  she  might  get  Tom's  permission  to  write  to 
him.  Her  heart  beat  with  double  violence  when  they  got  un- 
der the  Scotch  firs.  It  was  the  last  moment  of  suspense,  she 
thought;  Philip  always  met  her  soon  after  she  got  beyond 
them.  But  they  passed  across  the  more  open  green  space, 
and  entered  the  narrow  bushy  path  by  the  mound.  Another 
turning,  and  they  came  so  close  upon  him  that  both  Tom  and 
Philip  stopped  suddenly  within  a  yard  of  each  other.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence,  in  which  Philip  darted  a  look  of  in- 
quiry at  Maggie's  face.     He  saw  an  answer  thore,  in  the  pale 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  867 

parted  lips,  and  the  terrified  tension  of  the  largo  eyes.  Hor 
imagination,  always  rushing  extravagantly  beyond  an  immedi- 
ate impression,  saw  her  tall  strong  brother  grasping  the  feeble 
Philip  bodily,  crushing  him  and  trampling  on  him. 

"Do  you  call  this  acting  the  part  of  a  man  and  a  gentleman, 
sir  ?  "  Tom  said,  in  a  voice  of  harsh  scorn,  as  soon  as  riiilip'* 
eyes  were  turned  on  him  again. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  answered  Philip,  haughtily. 

"  Mean  ?  Stand  farther  from  me,  lest  I  should  lay  hands 
on  you,  and  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  mean.  I  mean,  taking  advan- 
tage of  a  young  girl's  foolishness  and  ignorance  to  get  her  to 
have  secret  meetings  with  you.  I  mean,  daring  to  triiie  with 
the  respectability  of  a  family  that  has  a  good  and  honest  name 
to  support." 

"  I  deny  that,"  interrupted  Philip,  impetuously.  "  I  could 
never  trifle  with  anything  that  affected  your  sister's  happiness. 
She  is  dearer  to  me  than  she  is  to  you  ;  I  honor  her  more 
than  you  can  ever  honor  her  ;  I  would  give  up  my  life  to  her." 

"  Don't  talk  high-flown  nonsense  to  me,  sir !  Do  you  mean 
to  pretend  that  you  did  n't  know  it  would  be  injurious  to  her 
to  meet  you  here  week  after  week  ?  Do  you  pi-etend  you  had 
any  right  to  make  professions  of  love  to  her,  even  if  yon  had 
been  a  fit  husband  for  her,  when  neither  her  father  nor  your 
father  would  ever  consent  to  a  marriage  between  you  ?  And 
you  —  1/ou  to  try  and  worm  yourself  into  the  affections  of  a 
handsome  girl  who  is  not  eighteen,  and  has  been  shut  out  from 
the  world  by  her  father's  misfortunes  !  That 's  your  crooked 
notion  of  honor,  is  it  ?  I  call  it  base  treachery  —  I  call  it 
taking  advantage  of  circumstances  to  win  wdiat  's  too  good  for 
you  —  what  you  'd  never  get  by  fair  means." 

"  It  is  manly  of  you  to  talk  in  this  way  to  me/'  said  Philip, 
bitterly,  his  whole  frame  shaken  by  violent  emo'tions.  "  Giants 
have  an  immemorial  right  to  stupidity  and  insolent  abuse. 
You  are  incapable  even  of  understanding  what  I  feel  for  your 
sister.  I  feel  so  much  for  her  that  I  could  even  desire  to  be 
at  friendship  with  yow." 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  to  understand  your  feelings,"  said 
Tom,  with  scorching  contempt.     "What  I  wish  is  that  you 


368  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

should  understand  me  —  that  I  shall  take  care  of  yny  sister, 
and  that  if  you  dare  to  make  the  least  attempt  to  come  near 
her,  or  to  write  to  her,  or  to  keep  the  slightest  hold  on  her 
mind,  your  puny,  miserable  body,  that  ought  to  have  put  some 
modesty  into  your  mind,  shall  not  protect  you.  I  '11  thrash 
you  —  I  '11  hold  you  up  to  public  scorn.  Who  would  n't  laugh 
at  the  idea  of  your  turning  lover  to  a  fine  girl  ?  " 

"Tom,  I  will  not  bear  it  —  I  will  listen  no  longer,"  Maggie 
burst  out,  in  a  convulsed  voice. 

"  Stay,  Maggie  !  "  said  Philip,  making  a  strong  effort  to 
speak.  Then,  looking  at  Tom,  "  You  have  dragged  your  sis- 
ter here,  I  suppose,  that  she  may  stand  by  while  you  threaten 
and  insult  me.  These  naturally  seemed  to  you  the  right 
means  to  influence  me.  But  you  are  mistaken.  Let  your 
sister  speak.  If  she  says  she  is  bound  to  give  me  up,  I  shall 
abide  by  her  Avishes  to  the  slightest  word." 

"  It  was  for  my  father's  sake,  Philip,"  said  Maggie,  implor- 
ingly. "  Tom  threatens  to  tell  my  father  —  and  he  could  n't 
bear  it :  I  have  promised,  I  have  vowed  solemnly,  that  we  will 
not  have  any  intercourse  without  my  brother's  knowledge." 

"It  is  enough,  Maggie.  I  shall  not  change;  but  I  w'.sh 
you  to  hold  yourself  entirely  free.  But  trust  me  —  remember 
that  I  can  never  seek  for  anything  but  good  to  what  belongs 
to  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  exasperated  by  this  attitude  of  Philip's, 
"  you  can  talk  of  seeking  good  for  her  and  what  belongs  to 
her  now  :  did  you  seek  her  good  before  ?  " 

"  I  did  —  at  some  risk,  perhaps.  But  I  wished  her  to  have 
a  friend  for  life  —  who  would  cherish  her,  who  would  do  her 
more  justice  than  a  coarse  and  narrow-minded  brother,  that 
she  has  always  lavished  her  affections  on." 

"  Yes,  my  way  of  befriending  her  is  different  from  yours  ; 
and  I  '11  tell  you  what  is  my  way.  I  '11  save  her  from  diso- 
beying and  disgracing  her  father :  I  '11  save  her  from  throwing 
herself  away  on  you  —  from  making  herself  a  laughing-stock 
—  from  being  flouted  by  a  man  like  your  father,  because  she 's 
not  good  enough  for  his  son.  You  know  well  enough  what 
sort  of  justice  and  cherishing  you  were  preparing  for  her. 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  3G9 

I  'm  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  fine  words  :  I  can  see  what 
actions  mean.     Come  away,  Maggie." 

He  seized  Maggie's  right  wrist  as  he  spoke,  and  she  put  ou"; 
her  left  hand.  Philip  clasped  it  an  instant,  with  one  eager 
look,  and  then  hurried  away. 

Tom  and  Maggie  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  yards.  He 
was  still  holding  her  wrist  tightly,  as  if  he  were  compelling 
a  culprit  from  the  scene  of  action.  At  last  Maggie,  with  a 
violent  snatch,  drew  her  hand  away,  and  her  pent-up,  long- 
gathered  irritation  burst  into  utterance. 

•'  Don't  suppose  that  I  think  you  are  right,  Tom,  or  that  I 
bow  to  your  will.  I  despise  the  feelings  you  have  shown  in 
speaking  to  Philip  :  I  detest  your  insulting  unmanly  allusions 
to  his  deformity.  You  have  been  reproaching  other  people 
all  your  life  —  you  have  been  always  sure  you  yourself  are 
right :  it  is  because  you  have  not  a  mind  large  enough  to  see 
*-,hat  there  is  anything  better  than  your  own  conduct  and  your 
own  petty  aims." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Tom,  coolly.  "  I  don't  see  that  your 
conduct  is  better,  or  your  aims  either.  If  your  conduct,  and 
Philip  Wakem's  conduct,  has  been  right,  why  are  you  ashamed 
of  its  being  known  ?  Answer  me  that.  I  know  what  I  have 
aimed  at  in  my  conduct,  and  I  've  succeeded  :  pray,  what  good 
has  your  conduct  brought  to  you  or  any  one  else  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  defend  myself,"  said  Maggie,  still  with 
vehemence  :  "  I  know  I  've  been  wrong  —  often,  continually. 
But  yet,  sometimes  when  I  have  done  wrong,  it  has  been 
because  I  have  feelings  that  you  would  be  the  better  for,  if 
you  had  them.  If  you  Avere  in  fault  ever  —  if  you  had  done 
anything  very  wrong,  I  should  be  sorry  for  the  pain  it  brought 
you;  I  should  not  want  punishment  to  be  heaped  on  you. 
But  you  have  always  enjoyed  punishing  me  —  you  have  al- 
ways been  hard  and  cruel  to  me  :  even  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  and  always  loved  you  better  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  you  would  let  me  go  crying  to  bed  without  forgiving 
me.  You  have  no  pity  :  you  have  no  sense  of  your  own  im- 
perfection and  your  own  sins.  It  is  a  sin  to  be  hard ;  it  is 
not  fitting  for  a  mortal  —  for  a  Christian.  You  are  nothing 
VOL.  II.  24 


370  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

but  a  Pharisee.  You  thank  God  for  nothing  but  your  own 
virtues  —  you  think  they  are  great  enough  to  win  you  every- 
thing else.  You  have  not  even  a  vision  of  feelings  by  the 
side  of  which  your  shining  virtues  are  mere  darkness  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  with  cold  scorn,  "  if  your  feelings  are  so 
much  better  than  mine,  let  me  see  you  show  them  in  some 
other  way  than  by  conduct  that 's  likely  to  disgrace  us  all  — 
than  by  ridiculous  flights  first  into  one  extreme  and  then  into 
another.  Pray,  how  have  you  shown  your  love,  that  you  talk 
of,  either  to  me  or  my  father  ?  By  disobeying  and  deceiving 
us.     I  have  a  different  way  of  showing  my  affection." 

"  Because  you  are  a  man,  Tom,  and  have  power,  and  can  do 
something  in  the  world." 

"  Then,  if  you  can  do  nothing,  submit  to  those  that  can." 

"  So  I  zvill  submit  to  what  I  acknowledge  and  feel  to  be 
right.  I  will  submit  even  to  what  is  unreasonable  from  my 
father,  but  I  will  not  submit  to  it  from  you.  You  boast  of 
your  virtues  as  if  they  purchased  you  a  right  to  be  cruel  and 
unmanly  as  you  've  been  to-day.  Don't  suppose  I  would  give 
up  Philip  Wakem  in  obedience  to  you.  The  deformity  you 
insult  would  make  me  cling  to  him  and  care  for  him  the 
more." 

"  Very  well  —  that  is  your  view  of  things,"  said  Tom,  more 
coldly  than  ever  ;  "  you  need  say  no  more  to  show  me  what  a 
wide  distance  there  is  between  us.  Let  us  remember  that  in 
future,  and  be  silent." 

Tom  went  back  to  St.  Ogg's,  to  fulfil  an  appointment  with 
his  uncle  Deane,  and  receive  directions  about  a  journey  on 
which  he  was  to  set  out  the  next  morning. 

Maggie  went  up  to  her  own  room  to  pour  out  all  that  indig- 
nant remonstrance,  against  which  Tom's  mind  was  close  barred, 
in  bitter  tears.  Then,  when  the  first  burst  of  unsatisfied  anger 
was  gone  by,  came  the  recollection  of  that  quiet  time  before 
the  pleasure  which  had  ended  in  to-day's  misery  had  perturbed 
the  clearness  and  simplicity  of  her  life.  She  used  to  think 
in  that  time  that  she  had  made  great  conquests,  and  won  a 
lasting  stand  on  serene  heights  above  worldly  temptations 
and  conflict.     And  here  she  was  down  again  in  the  thick  of 


WHEAT   AND  TARES.  371 

a  hot  strife  with  her  own  and  others'  passions.  Life  was  not 
so  short,  then,  and  perfect  rest  was  not  so  near  as  she  had 
dreamed  when  she  was  two  years  younger.  There  was  more 
struggle  for  her  —  perhaps  more  falling.  If  she  had  felt  that 
she  was  entirely  wrong,  and  that  Tom  had  been  entirely  right, 
she  could  sooner  h?,ve  recovered  more  inward  harmony ;  but 
now  her  penitence  and  submission  were  constantly  obstructed 
by  resentment  that  would  present  itself  to  her  no  otherwise 
than  as  a  just  indignation.  Her  heart  bled  for  Thilip :  she 
went  on  recalling  the  insults  that  had  been  flung  at  him 
with  so  vivid  a  conception  of  what  he  had  felt  under  them, 
that  it  was  almost  like  a  sharp  bodily  pain  to  her,  making 
her  beat  the  floor  with  her  foot,  and  tighten  her  fingers  on 
her  palm. 

And  yet,  how  was  it  that  she  was  now  and  then  conscious 
of  a  certain  dim  background  of  relief  in  the  forced  separation 
from  Philip  ?  Surely  it  was  only  because  the  sense  of  a 
deliverance  from  concealment  was  welcome  at  any  cost. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   HARD-WON   TRIUMPH. 

Three  weeks  later,  when  Dorlcote  Mill  was  at  its  prettiest 
moment  in  all  the  year  —  the  great  chestnuts  in  blossom,  and 
the  grass  all  deep  and  daisied  —  Tom  Tulliver  came  home  to 
it  earlier  than  usual  in  the  evening,  and  as  he  passed  over  the 
bridge,  he  looked  with  the  old  deep-rooted  affection  at  the 
respectable  red  brick  house,  which  always  seemed  cheerful 
and  inviting  outside,  let  the  rooms  be  as  bare  and  the  hearts 
as  sad  as  they  might,  inside.  There  is  a  very  pleasant  light 
in  Tom's  blue-gray  eyes  as  he  glances  at  the  house-windows  : 
that  fold  in  his  brow  never  disappears,  but  it  is  not  unbecom- 
ing ;  it  seems  to  imply  a  strength  of  will  that  may  possibly 
be  without  harshness,  when  the  eyes  and  mouth  have  their 
gentlest  expression.     His  firm  step  becomes  quicker,  and  the 


372  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

corners  of  liis  mouth  rebel  against  the  compression  which  is 
meant  to  forbid  a  smile. 

The  eyes  in  the  parlor  were  not  turned  towards  the  bridge 
just  then,  and  the  group  there  was  sitting  in  unexpectaut 
silence  —  Mr.  Tulliver  in  his  arm-chair,  tired  with  a  long  ride, 
and  ruminating  with  a  worn  look,  fixed  chiefly  on  Maggie, 
who  was  bending  over  her  sewing  while  her  mother  was 
making  the  tea. 

They  all  looked  up  with  surprise  when  they  heard  the  well- 
known  foot. 

"  Wliy,  what 's  up  now,  Tom  ?  "  said  his  father.  *'  You  're 
a  bit  earlier  than  usual." 

"  Oh,  there  was  nothing  more  for  me  to  do,  so  I  came  away. 
Well,  mother ! " 

Tom  went  up  to  his  mother  and  kissed  her,  a  sign  of  unusual 
good-humor  with  him.  Hardly  a  word  or  look  had  passed 
between  him  and  Maggie  in  all  the  three  weeks ;  but  his  usual 
incommunicativeness  at  home  prevented  this  from  being  notice- 
able to  their  parents. 

''  Father,"  said  Tom,  when  they  had  finished  tea,  "  do  you 
know  exactly  how  much  money  there  is  in  the  tin  box  ?  " 

"  Only  a  hundred  and  ninety -three  pound,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 
"  You  've  brought  less  o'  late  —  but  young  fellows  like  to  have 
their  own  way  with  their  money.  Though  I  didn't  do  as 
I  liked  before  /  was  of  age."  He  spoke  with  rather  timid 
discontent. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that 's  the  sum,  father  ?  "  said  Tom  : 
"  I  wish  you  would  take  the  trouble  to  fetch  the  tin  box  down. 
I  think  you  have  perhaps  made  a  mistake." 

"  How  should  I  make  a  mistake  ?  "  said  his  father,  sharply. 
"  I  've  counted  it  often  enough ;  but  I  can  fetch  it,  if  you  won't 
believe  me." 

It  was  always  an  incident  Mr.  Tulliver  liked,  in  his  gloomy 
life,  to  fetch  the  tin  box  and  count  the  money. 

"Don't  go  out  of  the  room,  mother,"  said  Tom,  as  he  saw 
her  moving  when  his  father  was  gone  up-stairs. 

"  And  is  n't  Maggie  to  go  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver  j  "  because 
somebody  must  take  away  the  things." 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  378 

*•'' Just  as  she  likes,"  said  Tom,  indifferently. 

That  was  a  cutting  word  to  Maggie.  Her  heart  had  leaped 
with  the  sudden  conviction  that  Tom  was  going  to  tell  their 
father  the  debts  could  be  paid  —  and  Tom  would  have  let  her 
be  absent  when  that  news  was  told  !  But  she  carried  away 
the  tray,  and  came  back  immediately.  The  feeling  of  injury 
on  her  own  behalf  could  not  predominate  at  that  moment. 

Tom  drew  to  the  corner  of  the  table  near  his  father  when 
the  tin  box  was  set  down  and  opened,  and  the  red  evening 
light  falling  on  them  made  conspicuous  the  worn,  sour  gloom 
of  the  dark-eyed  father  and  the  suppressed  joy  in  the  face  of 
the  fair-complexioned  son.  The  mother  and  Maggie  sat  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  the  one  in  blank  patience,  the  other  in 
palpitating  expectation. 

Mr.  Tulliver  counted  out  the  money,  setting  it  in  order  on 
the  table,  and  then  said,  glancing  sharply  at  Tom  — 

"  There  now  !  you  see  I  was  right  enough." 

He  paused,  looking  at  the  money  with  bitter  despondency. 

"There  's  more  nor  three  hundred  wanting  —  it'll  be  a  fine 
while  before  /  can  save  that.  Losing  that  forty-two  pound 
wi'  the  corn  was  a  sore  job.  This  world 's  been  too  many  for 
me.  It's  took  four  j^ear  to  lay  this  by  —  it's  much  if  I'm 
above  ground  for  another  four  year.  ...  I  must  trusten  to 
you  to  pay  'em,"  he  went  on,  with  a  trembling  voice,  "  if  you 
keep  i'  the  same  mind  now  you  're  coming  o'  age.  .  .  .  But 
you  're  like  enough  to  bury  me  first." 

He  looked  up  in  Tom's  face  with  a  querulous  desire  for 
some  assurance. 

"No,  father,"  said  Tom,  speaking  with  energetic  decision, 
though  there  was  tremor  discernible  in  his  voice  too,  "you 
will  live  to  see  the  debts  all  paid.  You  shall  pay  them  with 
your  own  hand." 

His  tone  implied  something  more  than  mere  hopefulness  or 
resolution.  A  slight  electric  shock  seemed  to  pass  through 
Mr.  Tulliver,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Tom  with  a  look 
of  eager  inquiry,  while  Maggie,  unable  to  restrain  herself, 
rushed  to  her  father's  side  and  knelt  down  by  him.  Tom  was 
silent  a  little  while  before  he  went  on. 


3T4  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  A  good  while  ago,  my  uncle  Glegg  lent  me  a  little  money 
to  trade  with,  and  that  has  answered.  I  have  three  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  in  the  bank." 

His  mother's  arms  were  round  his  neck  as  soon  as  the  last 
words  were  uttered,  and  she  said,  half  crying  — 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  I  knew  you  'd  make  iverything  right  again, 
when  you  got  a  man." 

But  his  father  was  silent :  the  flood  of  emotion  hemmed  in 
all  power  of  speech.  Both  Tom  and  Maggie  were  struck  with 
fear  lest  the  shock  of  joy  might  even  be  fatal.  But  the  blessed 
relief  of  tears  came.  The  broad  chest  heaved,  the  muscles  of 
the  face  gave  way,  and  the  gray-haired  man  burst  into  loud 
sobs.  The  fit  of  weeping  gradually  subsided,  and  he  sat  quiet, 
recovering  the  regularity  of  his  breathing.  At  last  he  looked 
up  at  his  wife  and  said,  in  a  gentle  tone  — 

"  Bessy,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me  now  —  the  lad  has  made 
you  amends.     You  '11  see  a  bit  o'  comfort  again,  belike." 

When  she  had  kissed  him,  and  he  had  held  her  hand  a  min- 
ute, his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  money. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  brought  me  the  money  to  look  at,  Tom,"  he 
said,  fingering  the  sovereigns  on  the  table  ;  "  I  should  ha'  felt 
surer." 

"  You  shall  see  it  to-morrow,  father,"  said  Tom.  "  My  uncle 
Deane  has  appointed  the  creditors  to  meet  to-morrow  at  the 
Golden  Lion,  and  he  has  ordered  a  dinner  for  them  at  two 
o'clock.  My  uncle  Glegg  and  he  will  both  be  there.  It  was 
advertised  in  the  '  Messenger  '  on  Saturday." 

"  Then  Wakem  knows  on  't ! "  said  JMr.  Tulliver,  his  eye 
kindling  with  triumphant  fii-e.  "  Ah ! "  he  went  on,  with  a 
long-drawn  guttural  enunciation,  taking  out  his  snuff-box,  the 
only  luxury  he  had  left  himself,  and  tapping  it  with  something 
of  his  old  air  of  defiance  —  "I  '11  get  from  under  his  thumb 
now  —  though  I  mtist  leave  the  old  mill.  I  thought  I  could 
ha'  held  out  to  die  here  —  but  I  can't.  .  .  .  We  've  got  a  glass 
o'  nothing  in  the  house,  have  we,  Bessy  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  drawing  out  her  much-reduced 
bunch  of  keys,  "  there  's  some  brandy  sister  Deane  brought  me 
when  I  was  ill." 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  875 

"  Get  it  me,  then,  get  it  me.     I  feel  a  bit  weak." 

"  Tom,  my  lad,"  he  said,  iu  a  stronger  voice,  when  he  had 
taken  some  Lrandy-and-water,  "  you  shall  make  a  speech  to 
'em.  I  '11  tell  'em  it 's  you  as  got  the  best  part  o'  the  money. 
They'll  see  I'm  honest  at  last,  and  ha'  got  an  honest  son. 
Ah  !  Wakem  'ud  be  fine  and  glad  to  have  a  son  like  mine  — 
a  fine  straight  fellow  —  i'stead  o'  that  poor  crooked  creatur  ! 
You  '11  prosper  i'  the  world,  my  lad  ;  you  '11  maybe  see  the  day 
when  Wakem  and  his  son  'nil  be  a  round  or  two  below  you. 
You'll  like  enough  be  ta'en  into  partnership,  as  your  uncle 
Deane  was  before  you  —  you  're  in  the  right  way  for 't ;  and 
then  there  's  nothing  to  hinder  your  getting  rich.  .  .  .  And  if 
ever  you're  rich  enough  — mind  this  — try  and  get  th'  old  mill 
again." 

Mr.  Tulliver  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair :  his  mind, 
which  had  so  long  been  the  home  of  nothing  but  bitter  discon- 
tent and  foreboding,  suddenly  filled,  by  the  magic  of  joy,  with 
visions  of  good  fortune.  But  some  subtle  influence  prevented 
him  from  foreseeing  the  good  fortune  as  happening  to  himself. 

"  Shake  hands  wi'  me,  my  lad,"  he  said,  suddenly  putting 
out  his  hand.  "  It 's  a  great  thing  when  a  man  can  be  proud 
as  he  's  got  a  good  son.     I  've  had  that  luck." 

Tom  never  lived  to  taste  another  moment  so  delicious  as 
that ;  and  Maggie  could  n't  help  forgetting  her  own  grievances. 
Tom  was  good ;  and  in  the  sweet  humility  that  springs  in  us 
all  in  moments  of  true  admiration  and  gratitude,  she  felt  that 
the  faults  he  had  to  pardon  in  her  had  never  been  redeemed, 
as  his  faults  were.  She  felt  no  jealousy  this  evening  that,  for 
the  first  time,  she  seemed  to  be  thrown  into  the  background  in 
her  father's  mind. 

There  was  much  more  talk  before  bed-time.  Mr.  Tulliver 
naturally  wanted  to  hear  all  the  particulars  of  Tom's  trading 
adventures,  and  he  listened  with  growing  excitement  and  de- 
light. He  was  curious  to  know  what  had  been  said  on  every 
occasion  —  if  possible,  what  had  been  thought  ;  and  Bob 
Jakin's  part  in  the  business  threw  him  into  peculiar  outbursts 
of  sympathy  with  the  triumphant  knowingness  of  that  remark, 
able  packman.     Bob's  juvenile  history,  so  far  as  it  had  come 


373  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

under  Mr.  Tulliver's  knowledge,  was  recalled  with  that  sense 
of  astonishing  promise  it  displayed,  which  is  observable  in  all 
reminiscences  of  the  childhood  of  great  men. 

It  was  well  that  there  was  this  interest  of  narrative  to  keep 
under  the  vague  but  fierce  sense  of  triumph  over  Wakem, 
which  would  otherwise  have  been  the  channel  his  joy  would 
have  rushed  into  with  dangerous  force.  Even  as  it  was,  that 
feeling  from  time  to  time  gave  threats  of  its  ultimate  maRter3% 
in  sudden  bursts  of  irrelevant  exclamation. 

It  was  long  before  Mr.  Tulliver  got  to  sleep  that  night,  and 
the  sleep,  when  it  came,  was  filled  with  vivid  dreams.  At 
half-past  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  Mrs.  Tulliver  was 
already  rising,  he  alarmed  her  by  starting  up  with  a  sort  of 
smothered  shout,  and  looking  round  in  a  bewildered  way  at 
the  walls  of  the  bedroom. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Mr.  Tulliver  ?  "  said  his  wife.  He  looked 
at  her,  still  with  a  puzzled  expression,  and  said  at  last  — 

"Ah!  —  I  was  dreaming  .  .  .  did  I  make  a  noise?  ,  .  ,  I 
thought  I'd  got  hold  of  him." 


CHAPTER    VII. 

A    DAT    OF     RECKONING. 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  an  essentially  sober  man  —  able  to  take 
his  glass  and  not  averse  to  it,  but  never  exceeding  the  bounds 
of  moderation.  He  had  naturally  an  active  Hotspur  tempera- 
ment, which  did  not  crave  liquid  fire  to  set  it  a-glow  ;  his  im- 
petuosity was  usually  equal  to  an  exciting  occasion  without 
any  such  reinforcements ;  and  his  desire  for  the  brandy-and- 
water  implied  that  the  too  sudden  joy  had  fallen  with  a  dan- 
gerous shock  on  a  frame  depressed  by  four  years  of  gloom  and 
unaccustomed  hard  fare.  But  that  first  doubtful  tottering  mo- 
ment passed,  he  seemed  to  gather  strength  with  his  gathering 
excitement ;  and  the  next  day,  when  he  was  seated  at  table 
with  his  creditors,  his  eye  kindling  and  his  cheek  flushed  with 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  377 

the  consciousness  tliat  he  was  about  to  make  an  honorable 
figure  once  more,  he  looked  more  like  the  pi-oud,  confident, 
warm-hearted  and  warm-tempered  Tulliver  of  old  times,  than 
might  have  seemed  possible  to  any  one  who  had  met  him  a 
week  before,  riding  along  as  had  been  his  wont  for  the  last 
four  years  since  the  sense  of  failure  and  debt  had  been  upon 
him — with  his  head  hanging  down,  casting  brief,  unwilling 
looks  on  those  who  forced  themselves  on  his  notice.  He  made 
his  speech,  asserting  his  honest  principles  with  his  old  confi- 
dent eagerness,  alluding  to  the  rascals  and  the  luck  that  had 
been  against  him,  but  that  he  had  triumphed  over,  to  some 
extent,  by  hard  efforts  and  the  aid  of  a  good  son ;  and  wind- 
ing up  with  the  story  of  how  Tom  had  got  the  best  part  of 
the  needful  money.  But  the  streak  of  irritation  and  hostile 
triumph  seemed  to  melt  for  a  little  while  into  purer  fatherly 
pride  and  pleasure,  when,  Tom's  health  having  been  proposed, 
and  uncle  Deane  having  taken  occasion  to  say  a  few  words  of 
eulogy  on  his  general  character  and  conduct,  Tom  himself  got 
up  and  made  the  single  speech  of  his  life.  It  could  hardly 
have  been  briefer :  he  thanked  the  gentlemen  for  the  honor 
they  had  done  him.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  been  able  to 
help  his  father  in  proving  his  integrity  and  regaining  his  hon- 
est name ;  and,  for  his  own  part,  he  hoped  he  should  never 
undo  that  work  and  disgrace  that  name.  But  the  applause 
that  followed  was  so  great,  and  Tom  looked  so  gentlemanly  as 
well  as  tall  and  straight,  that  Mr.  Tulliver  remarked,  in  an 
explanatory  manner,  to  his  friends  on  his  right  and  left,  that 
he  had  spent  a  deal  of  money  on  his  son's  education. 

The  party  broke  up  in  very  sober  fashion  at  five  o'clock. 
Tom  remained  in  St.  Ogg's  to  attend  to  some  business,  and 
Mr.  Tulliver  mounted  his  horse  to  go  home,  and  describe  the 
memorable  things  that  had  been  said  and  done,  to  "poor 
Bessy  and  the  little  wench."  The  air  of  excitement  that 
hung  about  him  was  but  faintly  due  to  good  cheer  or  any 
stimulus  but  the  potent  wine  of  triumphant  joy.  He  did  not 
choose  any  back  street  to-day,  but  rode  slowly,  with  uplifted 
head  and  free  glances,  along  the  principal  street  all  the  way 
to   the    bridge.     Why  did  he   not  happen  to  meet  Wakem  ? 


378  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

The  •want  of  that  coincidence  vexed  him,  and  set  his  mind  at 
work  in  an  irritating  way.  Perhaps  Wakem  was  gone  out  of 
town  to-day  on  purpose  to  avoid  seeing  or  hearing  anything 
of  an  honorable  action,  which  might  well  cause  him  some 
unpleasant  twinges.  If  Wakem  were  to  meet  him  then,  Mr. 
Tulliver  would  look  straight  at  him,  and  the  rascal  would 
perhaps  be  forsaken  a  little  by  his  cool  domineering  impu- 
dence. He  would  know  by-and-by  that  an  honest  man  was 
not  going  to  serve  him  an}^  longer,  and  lend  his  honesty  to  fill 
a  pocket  already  over-full  of  dishonest  gains.  Perhaps  the 
luck  was  beginning  to  turn ;  perhaps  the  devil  did  n't  always 
hold  the  best  cards  in  this  world. 

Simmering  in  this  way,  Mr.  Tulliver  approached  the  yard- 
gates  of  Dorlcote  Mill,  near  enough  to  see  a  well-known  figure 
coming  out  of  them  on  a  fine  black  horse.  They  met  about 
fifty  yards  from  the  gates,  between  the  great  chestnuts  and 
elms  and  the  high  bank. 

"  Tulliver,"  said  Wakem,  abruptly,  in  a  haughtier  tone  than 
usual,  ''  what  a  fool's  trick  you  did  —  spreading  those  hard 
lumps  on  that  Far  Close !  I  told  you  how  it  would  be ;  but 
you  men  never  learn  to  farm  with  any  method." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Tulliver,  suddenly  boiling  up  ;  ''  get  somebody 
else  to  farm  for  you,  then,  as  '11  ask  you  to  teach  him." 

"  You  have  been  drinking,  I  suppose,"  said  Wakem,  .really 
believing  that  this  was  the  meaning  of  Tulliver's  flushed  face 
and  sparkling  eyes. 

"No,  I've  not  been  drinking,"  said  Tulliver;  "I  want  no 
drinking  to  help  me  make  up  my  mind  as  I  '11  serve  no  longer 
under  a  scoundrel." 

"  Very  well !  you  may  leave  my  premises  to-morrow,  then : 
hold  your  insolent  tongue  and  let  me  pass."  (Tulliver  was 
backing  his  horse  across  the  road  to  hem  Wakem  in.) 

'-No,  I  skanH  let  you  pass,"  said  Tulliver,  getting  fiercer. 
"  I  shall  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you  first.  You  're  too  big  a 
raskill  to  get  hanged  —  you  're  —  " 

"  Let  me  pass,  you  ignorant  brute,  or  I  '11  ride  over  you." 

Mr.  Tulliver,  spurring  his  horse  and  raising  his  whip,  made 
a  rush  forward,  and  Wakem's  horse,  rearing  and  staggering 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  379 

backward,  threw  his  rider  from  the  saddle  and  sent  him  side- 
ways on  the  ground.  Wakem  had  had  the  presence  of  mind 
to  loose  the  bridle  at  once,  and  as  the  horse  only  staggered  a 
few  paces  and  then  stood  still,  he  might  have  risen  and  re- 
mounted without  more  inconvenience  than  a  bruise  and  a 
shake.  But  before  he  could  rise,  Tulliver  was  off  his  horse 
too.  The  sight  of  the  long-hated  predominant  man  down  and 
in  his  power,  threw  him  into  a  frenzy  of  triumphant  ven- 
geance, which  seemed  to  give  him  preternatural  agility  and 
strength.  He  rushed  on  Wakem,  who  was  in  the  act  of  trying 
to  recover  his  feet,  grasped  him  by  the  "left  arm  so  as  to  press 
Wakem's  whole  weight  on  the  right  arm,  which  rested  on  the 
ground,  and  flogged  him  fiercely  across  the  back  with  his 
riding-whip.  Wakem  shouted  for  help,  but  no  help  came, 
until  a  woman's  scream  was  heard,  and  the  cry  of  "  Father, 
father  ! " 

Suddenly,  Wakem  felt,  something  had  arrested  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver's  arm ;  for  the  flogging  ceased,  and  the  grasp  on  his  own 
arm  was  relaxed. 

"  Get  away  with  you  — go  ! "  said  Tulliver,  angrily.  But  it 
was  not  to  Wakem  that  he  spoke.  Slowly  the  lawyer  rose, 
and,  as  he  turned  his  head,  saw  that  Tulliver's  arms  were 
being  held  by  a  girl  —  rather  by  the  fear  of  hurting  the  girl 
that  clung  to  him  with  all  her  young  might. 

"  Oh,  Luke  —  mother  —  come  and  help  Mr.  Wakem  !  "  Mag- 
gie cried,  as  she  heard  the  longed-for  footsteps. 

"Help  me  on  to  that  low  horse,"  said  Wakem  to  Luke, 
"  then  I  shall  perhaps  manage  :  though  —  confound  it  —  I 
think  this  arm  is  sprained." 

With  some  difiiculty,  Wakem  was  heaved  on  to  Tulliver's 
horse.  Then  he  turned  towards  the  miller  and  said,  with 
white  rage,  "  You  '11  suffer  for  this,  sir.  Your  daughter  is  a 
witness  that  you  've  assaulted  me." 

"  I  don't  c?re,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  a  thick,  fierce  voice ; 
"  go  and  show  your  back,  and  tell  'em  I  thrashed  you.  Tell 
'em  I  've  made  things  a  bit  more  even  i'  the  world." 

"Ride  my  horse  home  with  me,"  said  Wakem  to  Luka 
^'By  the  Tofton  Ferry  —  not  through  the  town." 


380  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Father,  come  in  1 "  said  Maggie,  imploringly.  Then,  see- 
ing that  Wakem  had  ridden  off,  and  that  no  further  violence 
was  possible,  she  slackened  her  hold  and  burst  into  hysteric 
sobs,  while  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  by  m  silence,  quivering 
with  fear.  But  Maggie  became  conscious  that  as  she  was 
slackening  her  hold,  her  father  was  beginning  to  grasp  her 
and  lean  on  her.     The  surprise  checked  her  sobs. 

"  I  feel  ill  —  faintish,"  he  said.  "  Help  me  in,  Bessy  —  I  'm 
giddy  —  I  've  a  pain  i'  the  head." 

He  walked  in  slowly,  propped  by  his  wife  and  daughter, 
and  tottered  into  his  arm-chair.  The  almost  purple  flush  had 
given  way  to  paleness,  and  his  hand  was  cold. 

■'  Had  n't  we  better  send  for  the  doctor  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver. 

He  seemed  to  be  too  faint  and  suffering  to  hear  her ;  but 
presently,  when  she  said  to  Maggie,  "  Go  and  see  for  some- 
body to  fetch  the  doctor,"  he  looked  up  at  her  with  full 
comprehension,  and  said,  "  Doctor  ?  no  —  no  doctor.  It 's  my 
head  —  that 's  all.     Help  me  to  bed." 

Sad  ending  to  the  day  that  had  risen  on  them  all  like  a 
beginning  of  better  times  !  But  mingled  seed  must  bear  a 
mingled  crop. 

In  half  an  hour  after  his  father  had  lain  down  Tom  came 
home.  Bob  Jakin  was  with  him  —  come  to  congratulate  "the 
old  master,"  not  without  some  excusable  pride  that  he  had 
had  his  share  in  bringing  about  Mr.  Tom's  good  luck;  and 
Tom  had  thought  his  father  would  like  nothing  better,  as  a 
finish  to  the  day,  than  a  talk  with  Bob.  But  now  Tom  could 
only  spend  the  evening  in  gloomy  expectation  of  the  unpleas- 
ant consequences  that  must  follow  on  this  mad  outbreak  of 
his  father's  long-smothered  hate.  After  the  painful  news 
had  been  told,  he  sat  in  silence  :  he  had  not  spirit  or  inclina- 
tion to  tell  his  mother  and  sister  anything  about  the  dinner  — 
they  hardly  cared  to  ask  it.  Apparently  the  mingled  thread 
in  the  web  of  their  life  was  so  curiously  twisted  together,  that 
there  could  be  no  joy  without  a  sorrow  coming  close  upon  it. 
Tom  was  dejected  by  the  thought  that  his  exemplary  effort 
must  always  be  baffled  by  the  wrong-doing  of  others  :  Maggie 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  381 

was  living  through,  over  and  over  again,  the  agony  of  the  mo- 
ment in  which  she  had  rushed  to  throw  herself  on  her  father's 
arm  —  with  a  vague,  shuddering  foreboding  of  wretched  scenes 
to  come.  Not  one  of  the  three  felt  any  particular  alarm  about 
Mr.  Tulliver's  health  :  the  symptoms  did  not  recall  his  former 
dangerous  attack,  and  it  seemed  only  a  necessary  consequence 
that  his  violent  passion  and  effort  of  strength,  after  many 
hours  of  unusual  excitement,  should  have  made  him  feel  ill. 
Eest  would  probably  cure  him. 

Tom,  tired  out  by  his  active  day,  fell  asleep  soon,  and  slept 
soundly :  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  only  just  come  to  bed, 
when  he  waked  to  see  his  mother  standing  by  him  in  the  gray 
light  of  early  morning. 

"  My  boy,  you  must  get  up  this  minute :  I  've  sent  for  the 
doctor,  and  your  father  wants  you  and  Maggie  to  come  to 
him." 

''  Is  he  worse,  mother  ?  " 

"  He  's  been  very  ill  all  night  with  his  head,  but  he  does  n't 
say  it 's  worse  —  he  only  said  sudden,  '  Bessy,  fetch  the  boy 
and  girl.     Tell  'em  to  make  haste.' " 

Maggie  and  Tom  threw  on  their  clothes  hastily  in  the  chill 
gray  light,  and  reached  their  father's  room  almost  at  the  same 
moment.  He  was  watching  for  them  with  an  expression  of 
pain  on  his  brow,  but  with  sharpened  anxious  consciousness 
in  his  eyes.  Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  fright- 
ened and  trembling,  looking  worn  and  aged  from  disturbed 
rest.  Maggie  was  at  the  bedside  first,  but  her  father's  glance 
was  towards  Tom,  who  came  and  stood  next  to  her. 

"  Tom,  my  lad,  it 's  come  upon  me  as  I  shan't  get  up 
again.  .  .  .  This  world  's  been  too  many  for  me,  my  lad, 
but  you  've  done  what  you  could  to  make  things  a  bit  even. 
Shake  hands  wi'  me  again,  my  lad,  before  I  go  away  from 
you." 

The  father  and  son  clasped  hands  and  looked  at  each  othei 
an  instant.     Then  Tom  said,  trying  to  speak  firmly  — 

"  Have  you  any  wish,  father  — that  I  can  fulfil,  when  — " 

«  Ay,  my  lad  .  .  .  you  '11  try  and  get  the  old  mill  back." 

«  Yes,  father." 


382  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  And  there  's  your  mother  —  you  '11  try  and  make  her 
amends,  all  you  can,  for  my  bad  luck  .  .  .  and  there  's  the 
little  wench  —  " 

The  father  turned  his  eyes  on  Maggie  with  a  still  more  eager 
look,  while  she,  with  a  bursting  heart,  sank  on  her  knees,  to  be 
closer  to  the  dear,  time-worn  face  which  had  been  present  with 
her  through  long  years,  as  the  sign  of  her  deepest  love  and 
hardest  trial. 

"  You  must  take  care  of  her,  Tom  .  .  .  don't  you  fret,  my 
wench  .  .  .  there  '11  come  somebody  as  '11  love  you  and  take 
your  part  .  .  .  and  you  must  be  good  to  her,  my  lad.  I  was 
good  to  my  sister.  Kiss  me,  Maggie.  .  .  .  Come,  Bessy.  .  .  . 
You  '11  manage  to  pay  for  a  brick  grave,  Tom,  so  as  your 
mother  and  me  can  lie  together." 

He  looked  away  from  them  all  when  he  had  said  this,  and 
lay  silent  for  some  minutes,  while  they  stood  watching  him, 
not  daring  to  move.  The  morning  light  was  growing  clearer 
for  them,  and  they  could  see  the  heaviness  gathering  in  his 
face,  and  the  dulness  in  his  eyes.  But  at  last  he  looked  towards 
Tom  and  said  — 

'  I  had  my  turn  —  I  beat  him.  That  was  nothing  but  fair. 
I  never  wanted  anything  but  what  was  fair." 

"But,  father,  dear  father,"  said  IMaggie,  an  unspeakable 
anxiety  predominating  over  her  grief,  "  you  forgive  him  —  you 
forgive  every  one  now  ?  " 

He  did  not  move  his  eyes  to  look  at  her,  but  he  said  — 

"  No,  my  wench.  I  don't  forgive  him.  .  .  .  What 's  forgiv- 
ing to  do  ?     I  can't  love  a  raskill  —  " 

His  voice  had  become  thicker ;  but  he  wanted  to  say  more, 
and  moved  his  lips  again  and  again,  struggling  in  vain  to  speak. 
At  length  the  words  forced  their  way. 

''  Does  God  forgive  raskills  ?  .  .  .  but  if  he  does,  he  won't 
be  hard  wi'  me." 

His  hands  moved  uneasily,  as  if  he  wanted  them  to  remove 
some  obstruction  that  weighed  upon  him.  Two  or  three  times 
there  fell  from  him  some  broken  words  — 

"  This  world  's  .  .  .  too  many  .  .  .  honest  man  .  .  .  puz- 
zling —  " 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  383 

Soon  they  merged  into  mere  mutteriugs  ;  the  eyes  had  ceased 
to  discern ;  and  then  came  the  final  silence. 

But  not  of  death.  For  an  hour  or  more  the  chest  heaved, 
the  loud  hard  breathing  continued,  getting  gradually  slower,  as 
the  cold  dews  gathered  on  the  brow. 

At  last  there  was  total  stillness,  and  poor  Tulliver's  dimly 
lighted  soul  had  forever  ceased  to  be  vexed  with  the  painful 
riddle  of  this  world. 

Help  was  come  now :  Luke  and  his  Avife  were  there,  anc 
Dr.  Turnbull  had  arrived,  too  late  for  everything  but  to  say, 
"  This  is  death." 

Tom  and  Maggie  went  down-stairs  together  into  the  room 
where  their  father's  place  was  empty.  Their  eyes  turned  to 
the  same  spot,  and  Maggie  spoke : 

"  Tom,  forgive  me  —  let  us  always  love  each  other ; "  and 
they  clung  and  wept  together. 


BOOK    VI. 

THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

V 

A    DUET    IN   PARADISE. 

The  well-furnished  drawing-room,  with  the  open  grand  piano, 
and  the  pleasant  outlook  down  a  sloping  garden  to  a  boat- 
house  bj  the  side  of  the  Floss,  is  Mr.  Deane's.  The  neat 
little  lady  in  mourning,  whose  light-brown  ringlets  are  falling 
over  the  colored  embroidery  with  which  her  fingers  are  busy, 
is  of  course  Lucy  Deane ;  and  the  fine  young  man  who  is 
leaning  down  from  his  chair  to  snap  the  scissors  in  the  ex- 
tremely abbreviated  face  of  the  "  King  Charles  "  lying  on  the 
young  lady's  feet,  is  no  other  than  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  whose 
diamond  ring,  attar  of  roses,  and  air  of  nonchalant  leisure,  at 
twelve  o'clock  in  the  day,  are  the  graceful  and  odoriferous 
result  of  the  largest  oil-mill  and  the  most  extensive  wharf  in 
St.  Ogg's.  There  is  an  apparent  triviality  in  the  action  with 
the  scissors,  but  your  discernment  perceives  at  once  that  there 
is  a  design  in  it  which  makes  it  eminently  worthy  of  a  large- 
headed,  long-limbed  young  man ;  for  you  see  that  LiTcy  wants 
the  scissors,  and  is  compelled,  reluctant  as  she  may  be,  to 
shake  her  ringlets  back,  raise  her  soft  hazel  eyes,  smile  play- 
fully down  on  the  face  that  is  so  very  nearly  on  a  level  with 
her  knee,  and,  holding  out  her  little  shell-pink  palm,  to  say  — 

"  My  scissors,  please,  if  you  can  renounce  the  great  pleasure 
of  persecuting  my  poor  Minny." 

The  foolish  scissors  have  slipped  too  far  over  the  knuckles, 
it  seems,  and  Hercules  holds  out  his  entrapped  fingers  hope- 
lessly. 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  385 

"Confound  the  scissors!  The  oval  lies  the  wrong  way. 
Please,  draw  them  off  for  me." 

"Draw  them  off  with  your  other  hand,"  says  Miss  Lucy, 
roguishly. 

"  Oh,  but  that 's  my  left  hand :  I  'm  not  left-handed." 
Lucy  laughs,  and  the  scissors  are  drawn  off  with  gentle 
touches  from  tiny  tips,  which  naturally  dispose  Mr.  Stephen 
for  a  repetition  da  capo.  Accordingly,  he  watches  for  the 
release  of  the  scissors,  that  he  may  get  them  into  his  posses- 
sion again. 

"No,  no,"'  said  Lucy,  sticking  them  in  her  band,  "you  shall 
not  have  my  scissors  again  —  you  have  strained  them  already. 
Now  don't  set  Minny  growling  again.  Sit  up  and  behave 
properly,  and  then  I  will  tell  you  some  news." 

"  What  is  that  ? "  said  Stephen,  throwing  himself  back 
and  hanging  his  right  arm  over  the  corner  of  his  chair.  He 
might  have  been  sitting  for  his  portrait,  which  would  have 
represented  a  rather  striking  young  man  of  five-and-twenty, 
with  a  square  forehead,  short  dark-brown  hair  standing  erect, 
with  a  slight  wave  at  the  end,  like  a  thick  crop  of  corn,  and  a 
half-ardent,  half-sarcastic  glance  from  under  his  well-marked 
horizontal  eyebrows.     "  Is  it  very  important  news  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  very.     Guess." 

"  You  are  going  to  change  Minny's  diet,  and  give  him  three 
ratafias  soaked  in  a  dessert-spoonful  of  cream  daily  ?  " 

"  Quite  wrong." 

"  Well,  then,  Dr.  Kenn  has  been  preaching  against  buck, 
ram,  and  you  ladies  have  all  been  sending  him  a  round-robin, 
saying  —  '  This  is  a  hard  doctrine  ;  who  can  bear  it  ? '  " 

"  For  shame  ! "  said  Lucy,  adjusting  her  little  mouth  gravely. 
"It  is  rather  dull  of  you  not  to  guess  my  news,  because  it  is 
about  something  I  mentioned  to  you  not  very  long  ago." 

"  But  you  have  mentioned  many  things  to  me  not  long  ago. 
Does  your  feminine  tyranny  require  that  when  you  say  the 
thing  you  mean  is  one  of  several  things,  I  should  know  it 
immediately  by  that  mark?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  think  I  am  silly." 

"  I  think  you  are  perfectly  charming." 
VOL.  II.  26 


386  THE  MILL   ON  THE   FLOSS. 

"  And  my  silliness  is  part  of  my  charm  ?  " 
"  I  did  n't  say  tliatr 

"  But  I  know  you  like  women  to  be  rather  insipid,  Philip 
Wakem  betrayed  you  :  he  said  so  one  day  when  you  were  not 
here." 

"  Oh,  I  know  Phil  is  fierce  on  that  point ;  he  makes  it 
quite  a  personal  matter.  I  think  he  must  be  love-sick  for 
some  unknown  lady  —  some  exalted  Beatrice  whom  he  met 
abroad." 

"By  the  bye,"  said  Lucy,  pausing  in  her  work,  "it  has 
just  occurred  to  me  that  I  have  never  found  out  whether  my 
cousin  Maggie  will  object  to  see  Philip,  as  her  brother  does. 
Tom  will  not  enter  a  room  where  Philip  is,  if  he  knows  it : 
perhaps  Maggie  may  be  the  same,  and  then  we  shan't  be  able 
to  sing  our  glees  —  shall  we  ?  " 

"What!  is  your  cousin  coming  to  stay  with  you?"  said 
Stephen,  with  a  look  of  slight  annoyance. 

"  Yes ;  that  was  my  news,  which  you  have  forgotten.  She 's 
going  to  leave  her  situation,  where  she  has  been  nearly  two 
years,  poor  thing  —  ever  since  her  father's  death ;  and  she  will 
stay  with  me  a  month  or  two  —  many  months,  I  hope." 
"  And  am  I  bound  to  be  pleased  at  that  news  ?  " 
"  Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  little  air  of  pique, 
"/am  pleased,  but  that,  of  course,  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
be  pleased.  There  is  no  girl  in  the  world  I  love  so  well  as 
my  cousin  Maggie." 

"  And  you  will  be  inseparable,  I  suppose,  when  she  comes. 
There  will  be  no  possibility  of  a  tete-a-tete  with  you  any 
more,  unless  you  can  find  an  admirer  for  her,  who  will  pair 
off  with  her  occasionally.  What  is  the  ground  of  dislike  to 
Philip  ?     He  might  have  been  a  resource." 

"  It  is  a  family  quarrel  with  Philip's  father.  There  were 
very  painful  circumstances,  I  believe.  I  never  quite  under- 
stood them,  or  knew  them  all.  My  uncle  Tulliver  was  unfor- 
tunate and  lost  all  his  property,  and  I  think  he  considered 
Mr.  Wakem  was  somehow  the  cause  of  it.  Mr.  Wakem 
bought  Dorlcote  Mill,  my  uncle's  old  place,  where  he  always 
lived.     You  must  remember  my  uncle  Tulliver,  don't  you  ?  " 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  387 

"No,"  said  Steplien,  with  rather  supercilious  indifference. 
"I've  always  known  the  name,  and  I  dare  say  I  knew  the  man 
by  sight,  apart  from  his  name.  I  know  half  the  names  and  faces 
in  the  neighborhood  in  that  detached,  disjointed  way." 

"He  was  a  very  hot-tempered  man.  I  remember,  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  and  used  to  go  to  see  my  cousins,  he  often 
frightened  me  by  talking  as  if  he  were  angry.  Papa  told  me 
there  was  a  dreadful  quarrel,  the  very  day  before  my  uncle's 
death,  between  him  and  Mr.  Wakem,  but  it  was  hushed  up. 
That  was  when  you  were  in  London.  Papa  says  n\j  uncle 
was  quite  mistaken  in  many  ways :  his  mind  had  become 
embittered.  But  Tom  and  iVIaggie  must  naturally  feel  it  very 
painful  to  be  reminded  of  these  things.  They  have  had  so 
much  —  so  very  much  trouble.  Maggie  was  at  school  with 
me  six  years  ago,  when  she  was  fetched  away  because  of  her 
father's  misfortunes,  and  she  has  hardly  had  any  pleasure 
since,  I  think.  She  has  been  in  a  dreary  situation  in  a  school 
since  uncle's  death,  because  she  is  determined  to  be  indepen- 
dent, and  not  live  with  aunt  Pullet ;  and  I  could  hardly  wish 
her  to  come  to  me  then,  because  dear  mamma  was  ill,  and 
everything  was  so  sad.  That  is  why  I  want  her  to  come  to  me 
now,  and  have  a  long,  long  holiday." 

"  Very  sweet  and  angelic  of  you,"  said  Stephen,  looking  at 
her  with  an  admiring  smile  ;  "  and  all  the  more  so  if  she  has 
the  conversational  qualities  of  her  mother." 

"  Poor  aunty  !  You  are  cruel  to  ridicule  her.  She  is  very 
valuable  to  me,  I  know.  She  manages  the  house  beautifully 
—  much  better  than  any  stranger  would  —  and  she  was  a  great 
comfort  to  me  in  mamma's  illness.^ 

"  Yes,  but  in  point  of  companionship,  one  would  prefer  that 
she  should  be  represented  by  her  brandy-cherries  and  cream- 
cakes.  I  think  with  a  shudder  that  her  daughter  will  always 
be  present  in  person,  and  have  no  agreeable  proxies  of  that 
kind  —  a  fat,  blond  girl,  with  round  blue  eyes,  who  will  stare 
at  us  silently." 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  exclaimed  Lucy,  laughing  wickedly  and  clap« 
ping  her  hands,  "  that  is  just  my  cousin  Maggie.  You  must 
have  seen  her  1 " 


388  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"No,  indeed :  I  'in  only  guessing  wliat  Mrs.  Tulliver'a 
daughter  must  be  ;  and  then  if  she  is  to  banish  Philip,  our 
only  apology  for  a  tenor,  that  will  be  an  additional  bore." 

"  But  I  hope  that  may  not  be.  I  think  I  will  ask  you  to 
call  on  Philip  and  tell  him  Maggie  is  coming  to-morrow.  He 
is  quite  aware  of  Tom's  feeling,  and  always  keeps  out  of  his 
way  ;  so  he  will  understand,  if  you  tell  him,  that  I  asked  you 
to  warn  him  not  to  come  until  I  write  to  ask  him." 

''  I  think  you  had  better  write  a  pretty  note  for  me  to  take : 
Phil  is  so  sensitive,  you  know,  the  least  thing  might  frighten 
him  off  coming  at  all,  and  we  had  hard  work  to  get  him.  I 
can  never  induce  him  to  come  to  the  park :  he  doesn't  like  my 
sisters,  I  think.  It  is  only  your  faery  touch  that  can  lay  his 
ruffled  feathers." 

Stephen  mastered  the  little  hand  that  was  straying  towards 
the  table,  and  touched  it  lightly  with  his  lips.  Little  Lucy 
felt  very  proud  and  happy.  She  and  Stephen  were  in  that 
stage  of  courtship  which  makes  the  most  exquisite  moment  of 
youth,  the  freshest  blossom-time  of  passion  —  v/hen  each  is 
sure  of  the  other's  love,  but  no  formal  declaration  has  been 
made,  and  all  is  mutual  divination,  exalting  the  most  trivial 
word,  the  lightest  gesture,  into  thrills  delicate  and  delicious 
as  wafted  jasmine  scent.  The  explicitness  of  an  engagement 
wears  off  this  finest  edge  of  susceptibility ;  it  is  jasmine 
gathered  and  presented  in  a  large  bouquet. 

"  But  it  is  really  odd  that  you  should  have  hit  so  exactly  on 
Maggie's  appearance  and  manners,"  said  the  cunning  Lucy, 
moving  to  reach  her  desk,  "  because  she  might  have  been  like 
her  brother,  you  know ;  and  Tom  has  not  round  eyes ;  and  he 
is  as  far  as  possible  from  staring  at  people." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  he  is  like  the  father:  he  seems  to  be  as  proud 
as  Lucifer.  Not  a  brilliant  companion,  though,  I  should 
think." 

"I  like  Tom.  He  gave  me  my  Minny  when  I  lost  Lolo; 
and  papa  is  very  fond  of  him  :  he  says  Tom  has  excellent 
principles.  It  was  through  him  that  his  father  was  able  to 
pay  all  his  debts  before  he  died." 

"  Oh,  ah ;  I  've  heard  about  that.     I  heard  your  father  and 


THE  GREAT   TEMPTATION.  389 

mine  talking  about  it  a  little  while  ago,  after  dinner,  in  one 
of  their  interminable  discussions  about  business  They  think 
of  doing  something  for  young  Tulliver :  he  saved  th^ni  from 
a  considerable  loss  by  riding  home  in  some  marveHous  way, 
like  Turpin,  to  bring  them  news  about  the  stoppage  of  a  bank, 
or  something  of  that  sort.  But  I  was  rather  drowsy  at  the 
time." 

Stephen  rose  from  his  seat,  and  sauntered  to  the  piano,  hum- 
ming in  falsetto,  "  Graceful  Consort,"  as  he  turned  over  the 
volume  of  "  The  Creation,"  which  stood  open  on  the  desk. 

"  Come  and  sing  tliis,"  he  said,  when  he  saw  Lucy  rising. 

*'  What !  '  Graceful  Consort '  ?  I  don't  think  it  suits  your 
voice." 

"  Never  mind ;  it  exactly  suits  my  feeling,  which,  Philip 
will  have  it,  is  the  grand  element  of  good  singing.  I  notice 
men  with  indifferent  voices  are  usually  of  that  opinion." 

"  Philip  burst  into  one  of  his  invectives  against  '  The  Crea- 
tion '  the  other  day,"  said  Lucy,  seating  herself  at  the  piano. 
"  He  says  it  has  a  sort  of  sugared  complacency  and  flattering 
make-believe  in  it,  as  if  it  were  written  for  the  birthday  fete 
of  a  German  Grand-Duke." 

"  Oh,  pooh  !  He  is  the  fallen  Adam  with  a  soured  temper. 
We  are  Adam  and  Eve  unfallen,  in  Paradise.  Now,  then  — 
the  recitative,  for  the  sake  of  the  moral.  You  will  sing  tlie 
whole  duty  of  woman  — '  And  from  obedience  grows  my  pride 
and  happiness.' " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shall  not  respect  an  Adam  who  drags  the  tempo, 
as  you  will,"  said  Lucy,  beginning  to  play  the  duet. 

Surely  the  only  courtship  unshaken  by  doubts  and  fears, 
must  be  that  in  which  the  lovers  can  sing  together.  The 
sense  of  mutual  fitness  that  springs  from  the  two  deep  notes 
fulfilling  expectation  just  at  the  right  moment  between  the 
notes  of  the  silvery  soprano,  from  the  perfect  accord  of  de- 
scending thirds  and  fifths,  from  the  preccncerfced  loving  chase 
of  a  fugue,  is  likely  enough  to  supersede  any  immediate  de- 
mand for  less  impassioned  forms  of  agreement.  The  contralto 
will  not  care  to  catechise  the  bass;  the  tenor  will  foresee 
no  embarrassing  dearth  of  remark  in  evenings  spent  with  the 


390  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

lovely  soprano.  In  the  provinces,  too,  where  music  was  so 
scarce  in  that  remote  time,  how  could  the  musical  people 
avoid  falling  in  love  with  each  other  ?  Even  political  princi- 
ple must  have  been  in  danger  of  relaxation  under  such  circum- 
stances ;  and  the  violin,  faithful  to  rotten  boroughs,  must  have 
been  tempted  to  fraternize  in  a  demoralizing  way  with  a  re- 
forming violoncello.  In  this  case,  the  linnet-throated  soprano, 
and  the  full-toned  bass,  singing, 

"  With  thee  delight  is  ever  new, 
With  thee  is  life  incessant  bliss," 

believed  what  they  sang  all  the  more  because  they  sang  it. 

"  Now  for  Eaphael's  great  song,"  said  Lucy,  when  they  had 
finished  the  duet.     "You  do  the  'heavy  beasts '  to  perfection," 

"That  sounds  complimentary,"  said  Stephen,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "  By  Jove,  it 's  nearly  half -past  one  !  Well,  I  can 
just  sing  this." 

Stephen  delivered  with  admirable  ease  the  deep  notes  rep- 
resenting the  tread  of  the  heavy  beasts :  but  when  a  singer 
has  an  audience  of  two,  there  is  room  for  divided  sentiments. 
Minny's  mistress  was  charmed ;  but  Minny,  who  had  intrenched 
himself,  trembling,  in  his  basket  as  soon  as  the  music  began, 
found  this  thunder  so  little  to  his  taste  that  he  leaped  out  and 
scampered  under  the  remotest  chiffomiier,  as  the  most  eligible 
place  in  which  a  small  dog  could  await  the  crack  of  doom. 

"  Adieu,  '  graceful  consort,'  "  said  Stephen,  buttoning  his 
coat  across  when  he  had  done  singing,  and  smiling  down  from 
his  tall  height,  with  the  air  of  rather  a  patronizing  lover,  at 
the  little  lady  on  the  music-stool.  "  My  bliss  is  not  incessant, 
for  I  must  gallop  home.     I  promised  to  be  there  at  lunch." 

"  You  will  not  be  able  to  call  on  Philip,  then  ?  It  is  of  no 
consequence  :  I  have  said  everything  in  my  note." 

"You  will  be  engaged  with  your  cousin  to-morrow,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"YeSj  we  are  going  to  have  a  little  family-party.  My  cousin 
Tom  will  dine  with  us  ;  and  poor  aunty  will  have  her  two 
children  together  for  the  first  time.  It  will  be  very  pretty; 
I  think  a  great  deal  about  it." 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  391 

"  But  I  may  come  the  next  day  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  Come  and  be  introduced  to  my  cousin  Maggie  — 
though  you  can  hardly  be  said  not  to  have  seen  her,  you  have 
described  her  so  well." 

"Good-by,  then."  And  there  was  that  slight  pressure  of 
the  hands,  a.nd  momentary  meeting  of  the  eyes,  which  will 
often  leave  a  little  lady  with  a  slight  flush  and  smile  on  her 
face  that  do  not  subside  immediately  when  the  door  is  closed, 
and  with  an  inclination  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  rather 
than  to  seat  herself  quietly  at  her  embroidery,  or  other  rational 
and  improving  occupation.  At  least  this  was  the  eft'ect  on 
Lucy ;  and  you  will  not,  I  hope,  consider  it  an  indication  of 
vanity  predominating  over  more  tender  impulses,  that  she  just 
glanced  in  the  chimney-glass  as  her  walk  brought  her  near  it. 
The  desire  to  know  that  one  has  not  looked  an  absolute  fright 
during  a  few  hours  of  conversation,  may  be  construed  as  lying 
within  the  bounds  of  a  laudable  benevolent  consideration  for 
others.  And  Lucy  had  so  much  of  this  benevolence  in  her 
nature  that  I  am  inclined  to  think  her  small  egoisms  were 
impregnated  with  it,  just  as  there  are  people  not  altogether 
unknown  to  you,  whose  small  benevolences  have  a  predomi- 
nant and  somewhat  rank  odor  of  egoism.  Even  now,  that 
she  is  walking  up  and  down  with  a  little  triumphant  flutter 
of  her  girlish  heart  at  the  sense  that  she  is  loved  by  the  per- 
son of  chief  consequence  in  her  small  world,  you  may  see  in 
her  hazel  eyes  an  ever-present  sunny  benignity,  in  which  the 
momentary  harmless  flashes  of  personal  vanity  are  quite  lost ; 
and  if  she  is  happy  in  thinking  of  her  lover,  it  is  because  the 
thought  of  him  mingles  readily  with  all  the  gentle  affections 
and  good-natured  offices  with  which  she  fills  her  peaceful  days. 
Even  now,  her  mind,  with  that  instantaneous  alternation  which 
makes  two  currents  of  feeling  or  imagination  seem  simulta- 
neous, is  glancing  continually  from  Stephen  to  the  preparations 
she  has  only  half  finished  in  Maggie's  room.  Cousin  Maggie 
should  be  treated  as  well  as  the  grandest  lady-visitor  —  nay, 
better,  for  she  should  have  Lucy's  best  prints  and  drawings 
in  her  bedroom,  and  the  very  finest  bouquet  of  spring  flowers 
on  her  table.     Maggie  would  enjoy  all  that  — she  was  so  fond 


392  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

of  pretty  things  I  And  there  was  poor  aunt  Tulliver,  that  no 
one  made  any  account  of  —  she  was  to  be  surprised  with  the 
present  of  a  cap  of  superlative  quality,  and  to  have  her  health 
drunk  in  a  gratifying  manner,  for  which  Lucy  was  going  to 
lay  a  plot  with  her  father  this  evening.  Clearly,  she  had  not 
time  to  indulge  in  long  reveries  about  her  own  happy  love- 
affairs.  With  this  thought  she  walked  towards  the  door,  but 
paused  there. 

"What's  the  matter,  then,  Miuny  ?"  she  said,  stooping  in 
answer  to  some  whimpering  of  that  small  quadruped,  and  lift- 
ing his  glossy  head  against  her  pink  cheek.  "  Did  you  think 
I  was  going  without  you  ?  Come,  then,  let  us  go  and  see 
Sinbad." 

Sinbad  was  Lucy's  chestnut  horse,  that  she  always  fed  with 
her  own  hand  when  he  was  turned  out  in  the  paddock.  She 
was  fond  of  feeding  dependent  creatures,  and  knew  the  private 
tastes  of  all  the  animals  about  the  house,  delighting  in  the  lit- 
tle rippling  sounds  of  her  canaries  when  their  beaks  were  busy 
with  fresh  seed,  and  in  the  small  nibbling  pleasures  of  certain 
animals  which,  lest  she  should  appear  too  trivial,  I  will  here 
call  "the  more  familiar  rodents." 

Was  not  Stephen  Guest  right  in  his  decided  opinion  that 
this  slim  maiden  of  eighteen  was  quite  the  sort  of  wife  a  man 
would  not  be  likely  to  repent  of  marrying  ?  —  a  woman  who 
was  loving  and  thoughtful  for  other  women,  not  giving  them 
Judas-kisses  with  eyes  askance  on  their  welcome  defects,  but 
with  real  care  and  vision  for  their  half-hidden  pains  and  mor- 
tifications, with  long  ruminating  enjoyment  of  little  pleasures 
prepared  for  them  ?  Perhaps  the  emphasis  of  his  admiration 
did  not  fall  precisely  on  this  rarest  quality  in  her  —  perhaps 
he  approved  his  own  choice  of  her  chiefly  because  she  did  not 
strike  him  as  a  remarkable  rarity.  A  man  likes  his  wife  to  be 
pretty  :  well,  Lucy  was  pretty,  but  not  to  a  maddening  extent. 
A  man  likes  his  wife  to  be  accomplished,  gentle,  affectionate, 
and  not  stupid ;  and  Lucy  had  all  these  qualifications.  Ste- 
phen was  not  surprised  to  find  himself  in  love  with  her,  and 
was  conscious  of  excellent  judgment  in  preferring  her  to  Miss 
Leyburn,  the  daughter  of  the  county  member,  although  Lucy 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  893 

was  only  the  daughter  of  his  father's  subordinate  partner; 
besides,  lie  had  had  to  defy  and  overcome  a  slight  unwilling, 
ness  and  disappointment  in  his  father  and  sisters  —  a  circum- 
stance which  gives  a  young  man  an  agreeable  consciousness  of 
his  own  dignity.  Stephen  was  aware  that  he  had  sense  and 
independence  enough  to  choose  the  wife  who  was  likely  to 
make  him  happy,  unbiassed  by  any  indirect  considerations. 
He  meant  to  choose  Lucy :  she  was  a  little  darling,  and  6»»- 
actly  the  sort  of  woman  he  had  always  most  admired. 


OHAPTER  II. 

FIRST   IMPRESSIONS. 

"He  is  very  clever,  Maggie,"  said  Lucy.  She  was  kneeling 
on  a  footstool  at  Maggie's  feet,  after  placing  that  dark  lady  in 
the  large  crimson- velvet  chair.  "  I  feel  sure  you  will  like  him. 
I  hope  you  will." 

"  I  shall  be  very  difficult  to  please,"  said  Maggie,  smiling, 
and  holding  up  one  of  Lucy's  long  curls,  that  the  sunlight 
might  shine  through  it.  "  A  gentleman  who  thinks  he  is  good 
enough  for  Lucy  must  expect  to  be  sharply  criticised." 

"  Indeed,  he 's  a  great  deal  too  good  for  me.  And  sometimes, 
when  he  is  away,  I  almost  think  it  can't  really  be  that  he  loves 
me.  But  I  can  never  doubt  it  when  he  is  Avith  me  —  though 
I  could  n't  bear  any  one  but  you  to  know  that  I  feel  in  that 
way,  Maggie." 

"  Oh,  then,  if  I  disapprove  of  him  you  can  give  him  up,  since 
you  are  not  engaged,"  said  Maggie,  with  playful  gravity. 

"I  would  rather  not  be  engaged.  Wluni  people  are  engaged, 
they  begin  to  think  of  being  married  soon,"  said  Luc)-,  too 
thoroughly  preoccupied  to  notice  Maggie's  joke  ;  "and  I  should 
like  everything  to  go  on  for  a  long  while  just  as  it  is.  Some- 
times I  am  quite  frightened  lest  Stephen  should  say  that  he 
has  spoken  to  papa ;  and  from  something  that  fell  from  papa 
the  other  day,  I  feel  sure  he  and  Mr.  Guest  are  expecting  that 


394  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

And  Stephen's  sisters  are  very  civil  to  me  now.  At  first,  1 
think  they  did  n't  like  his  paying  me  attention  ;  and  that  was 
natural.  It  does  seem  out  of  keeping  that  I  should  ever  live 
in  a  great  place  like  the  Park  House  —  such  a  little  insignifi- 
cant thing  as  I  am." 

"  But  people  are  not  expected  to  be  large  in  proportion  to 
the  houses  they  live  in,  like  snails,"  said  Maggie,  laughing. 
"  Pray,  are  Mr.  Guest's  sisters  giantesses  ?  " 

"  Oh  no ;  and  not  handsome  —  that  is,  not  very,"  said  Lucy, 
half-penitent  at  this  uncharitable  remark.  ''But  he  is  —  at 
least  he  is  generally  considered  very  handsome." 
"  Though  you  are  unable  to  share  that  opinion  ?  " 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Lucy,  blushing  pink  over  brow  and 
neck.  "  It  is  a  bad  plan  to  raise  expectation  ;  you  will  perhaps 
be  disappointed.  But  I  have  prepared  a  charming  surprise  for 
him  ;  I  shall  have  a  glorious  laugh  against  him.  I  shall  not 
tell  you  what  it  is,  though." 

Lucy  rose  from  her  knees  and  went  to  a  little  distance,  hold- 
ing her  pretty  head  on  one  side,  as  if  she  had  been  arranging 
Maggie  for  a  portrait,  and  wished  to  judge  of  the  general 
effect. 

"  Stand  up  a  moment,  Maggie." 

"  What  is  your  pleasure  now  ?  "  said  Maggie,  smiling  lan- 
guidly as  she  rose  from  her  chair  and  looked  down  on  her 
slight,  aerial  cousin,  whose  figure  was  quite  subordinate  to  her 
faultless  drapery  of  silk  and  crape. 

Lucy  kept  her  contemplative  attitude  a  moment  or  two  in 
silence,  and  then  said  — 

"I  can't  think  what  Avitchery  it  is  in  you,  Maggie,  that 
makes  you  look  best  in  shabby  clothes  ;  though  you  really 
must  have  a  new  dress  now.  But  do  you  know,  last  night  I 
was  trying  to  fancy  you  in  a  handsome  fashionable  dress,  and 
do  what  I  would,  that  old  limp  merino  would  come  back  as 
the  only  right  thing  for  you.  T  wonder  if  Marie  Antoinette 
looked  all  the  grander  when  her  gown  was  darned  at  the  el- 
bows. Now,  if  /  were  to  put  anything  shabby  on,  I  should  be 
quite  unnoticeable  —  I  should  V)p  a  mere  rag." 

"  Oh,  quite,"  said  Maggie,  with  mock  gravity.     "  You  would 


THE   GREAT   TEMPI  ATION.  395 

be  liable  to  be  swept  out  of  the  room  with  the  cobwebs  and 
carpet-dust,  and  to  find  yourself  under  the  grate,  like  Cinder- 
ella.    May  n't  I  sit  down  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  now  you  may,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  Then,  with  an 
air  of  serious  reflection,  unfastening  her  large  jet  brooch,  "  But 
you  must  change  brooches,  Maggie  ;  that  little  butterfly  looks 
silly  on  you  ?  " 

"  But  won't  that  mar  the  charming  effect  of  my  consistent 
shabbiness  ?  "  said  Maggie,  seating  herself  submissively,  while 
Lucy  knelt  again  and  unfastened  the  contemptible  butterfly. 
"  I  wish  my  mother  were  of  your  opinion,  for  she  was  fretting 
last  night  because  this  is  my  best  f roclc.  I  've  been  saving  my 
money  to  pay  for  some  lessons  :  I  shall  never  get  a  better  situ- 
ation without  more  accomplishments." 

Maggie  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"Now,  don't  put  on  that  sad  look  again,"  said  Lucy,  pin- 
ning the  large  brooch  below  Maggie's  tine  throat.  "You're 
forgetting  that  you  've  left  that  dreary  schoolroom  behind  you, 
and  have  no  little  girls'  clothes  to  mend," 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  It  is  with  me  as  I  used  to  think  it 
would  be  with  the  poor  uneasy  white  bear  I  saw  at  the  show. 
I  thought  he  must  have  got  so  stupid  with  the  habit  of  turn- 
ing backwards  and  forwards  in  that  narrow  space,  that  he 
would  keep  doing  it  if  they  set  him  free.  One  gets  a  bad 
habit  of  being  unhappy.'^ 

"But  I  shall  put  you  under  a  discipline  of  pleasure  that 
will  make  you  lose  that  bad  habit,"  said  Lucy,  sticking  the 
black  butterfly  absently  in  her  own  collar,  while  her  eyes  met 
Maggie's  affectionately. 

"  You  dear,  tiny  thing,"  said  Maggie,  in  one  of  her  bursts 
of  loving  admiration,  "  you  enjoy  other  people's  happiness  so 
much,  I  believe  you  would  do  without  any  of  your  own.  I 
wish  I  were  like  you." 

"  I  've  never  been  tried  in  that  way,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  've  al- 
ways been  so  happy.  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  bear  much 
trouble ;  I  never  had  any  but  poor  mamma's  death.  You  have 
been  tried,  Maggie ;  and  I  'm  sure  you  feel  for  other  people 
g^uite  as  much  as  I  do." 


396  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

''  No,  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  shaking  her  head  slowly,  "  I  don't 
enjoy  their  happiness  as  you  do  —  else  I  should  be  more  con- 
tented. I  do  feel  for  them  when  they  are  in  trouble ;  I  don't 
think  I  could  ever  bear  to  make  any  one  wihappy  ;  and  yet  I 
often  hate  myself,  because  I  get  angry  sometimes  at  the  sight 
of  happy  people.  I  think  I  get  worse  as  I  get  older  —  more 
selfish.     That  seems  very  dreadful." 

''  Now,  Maggie  ! "  said  Lucy,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  "  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  that.  It  is  all  a  gloomy  fancy  —  just 
because  you  are  depressed  by  a  dull  wearisome  life." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is,"  said  Maggie,  resolutely  clearing  away 
the  clouds  from  her  face  with  a  bright  smile,  and  throwing 
herself  backward  in  her  chair.  "Perhaps  it  comes  from  the 
school  diet  —  watery  rice-pudding  spiced  with  Pinnock.  Let 
us  hope  it  will  give  way  before  my  mother's  custards  and  this 
charming  Geoffrey  Crayon." 

Maggie  took  up  the  "  Sketch  Book,"  which  lay  by  her  on 
the  table. 

"Do  I  look  fit  to  be  seen  with  this  little  brooch?"  said 
Lucy,  going  to  survey  the  effect  in  the  chimney -glass. 

"  Oh  no,  Mr.  Guest  will  be  obliged  to  go  out  of  the  room  again 
if  he  sees  you  in  it.     Pray  make  haste  and  put  another  on." 

Lucy  hurried  out  of  the  room,  but  Maggie  did  not  take  the 
opportunity  of  opening  her  book  :  she  let  it  fall  on  her  knees, 
while  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  window,  where  she  could  see 
the  sunshine  falling  on  the  rich  clumps  of  spring  flowers  and 
on  the  long  hedge  of  laurels  —  and  beyond,  the  silvery  breadth 
of  the  dear  old  Floss,  that  at  this  distance  seemed  to  be  sleep- 
ing in  a  morning  holiday.  The  sweet  fresh  garden-scent  came 
through  the  oj^en  window,  and  the  birds  were  busy  flitting  and 
alighting,  gurgling  and  singing.  Yet  Maggie's  eyes  began  to 
fill  with  tears.  The  sight  of  the  old  scenes  had  made  the  rush 
of  memories  so  painful,  that  even  yesterday  she  had  only  been 
able  to  rejoice  in  her  mother's  restored  comfort  and  Tom's 
brotherly  friendliness  as  we  rejoice  in  good  news  of  friends  at 
a  distance,  rather  than  in  the  presence  of  a  happiness  which 
we  share.  Memory  and  imagination  urged  upon  her  a  sense 
of  privation  too  keen  to  let  her  taste  what  was  offered  in  fcha 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  397 

transient  present :  her  future,  she  thought,  was  likely  to  be 
worse  than  her  past,  for  after  her  years  of  contented  renuncia- 
tion, she  had  slipped  back  into  desire  and  longiug :  she  found 
joyless  days  of  distasteful  occupation  harder  and  harder  —  she 
found  the  image  of  the  intense  and  varied  life  she  yearned  for, 
and  despaired  of,  becoming  more  and  more  importunate.  The 
sound  of  the  opening  door  roused  her,  and,  hastily  wiping  away 
her  tears,  she  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  her  book. 

"  There  is  one  pleasure,  I  know,  Maggie,  that  your  deepest 
dismalness  will  never  resist,"  said  Lucy,  beginning  to  speak  as 
soon  as  she  entered  the  room.  "  That  is  music,  and  I  mean 
you  to  have  quite  a  riotous  feast  of  it.  I  mean  you  to  get  up 
your  playing  again,  which  used  to  be  so  much  better  than 
mine,  when  we  were  at  Laceham." 

"  You  would  have  laughed  to  see  me  playing  the  little  girls' 
tunes  over  and  over  to  them,  when  I  took  them  to  practice," 
isaid  Maggie,  "just  for  the  sake  of  fingering  the  dear  keys 
again.  But  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  play  anything  more 
difficult  now  than  '  Begone,  dull  care  I ' " 

"  I  know  what  a  wild  state  of  joy  you  used  to  be  in  when 
the  glee-men  came  round,"  said  Lucy,  taking  up  her  embroid- 
ery, "  and  we  might  have  all  those  old  glees  that  you  used  to 
love  so,  if  I  were  certain  that  you  don't  feel  exactly  as  Tom 
does  about  some  things." 

"I  should  have  thought  there  was  nothing  you  might  be 
more  certain  of,"  said  Maggie,  smiling. 

"I  ought  rather  to  have  said,  one  particular  thing.  Because  if 
you  feel  just  as  he  does  about  that,  we  shall  want  our  third 
voice.  St.  Ogg's  is  so  miserably  provided  with  musical  gentle- 
men. There  are  really  only  Stephen  and  Philip  AVakem  who 
have  any  knowledge  of  music,  so  as  to  be  able  to  sing  a  part." 

Lucy  had  looked  up  from  her  work  as  she  uttered  the  last 
sentence,  and  saw  that  there  was  a  change  in  Maggie's  face. 

"Does  it  hurt  you  to  hear  the  name  mentioned,  Maggie? 
If  it  does,  I  will  •  not  speak  of  him  again  I  know  Tom  will 
not  see  him  if  he  can  avoid  it." 

"I  don't  fsel  at  all  as  Tom  does  on  that  subject,"  said 
Maggie,  rising  and  going  to  the  window  as  if  she  wanted  to  see 


898  THE   MILL   ON   THE    FLOSS. 

more  of  the  landscape.  "  I  've  always  liked  Philip  Wakem 
ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  saw  him  at  Lorton.  He  was 
so  good  when  Tom  hurt  his  foot," 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad !  "  said  Lucy.  "  Then  you  won't  mind 
his  coming  sometimes,  and  we  can  have  much  more  music  than 
we  could  without  him.  I  'm  very  fond  of  poor  Philip,  only  I 
wish  he  were  not  so  morbid  about  his  deformity.  I  suppose  it 
is  his  deformity  that  makes  him  so  sad  —  and  sometimes  bitter. 
It  is  certainly  very  piteous  to  see  his  poor  little  crooked  body 
and  pale  face  among  great  strong  people." 

"But,  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  trying  to  arrest  the  prattling 
stream  — 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  door-bell.  That  must  be  Stephen,"  Lucy 
went  on,  not  noticing  Maggie's  faint  effort  to  speak,  "One 
of  the  things  I  most  admire  in  Stephen  is,  that  he  makes  a 
greater  friend  of  Philip  than  any  one." 

It  was  too  late  for  Maggie  to  speak  now :  the  drawing-room 
door  was  opening,  and  Minny  was  already  growling  in  a  small 
way  at  the  entrance  of  a  tall  gentleman,  who  went  up  to  Lucy 
and  took  her  hand  with  a  half-polite,  half-tender  glance  and 
tone  of  inquiry,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  uncon- 
scious of  any  other  presence. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  cousin.  Miss  TuUiver,"  said 
Lucy,  turning  with  wicked  enjoyment  towards  Maggie,  who 
now  approached  from  the  farther  window.  "  This  is  Mr.  Ste- 
phen Guest." 

For  one  instant  Stephen  could  not  conceal  his  astonishment 
at  the  sight  of  this  tall  dark-eyed  nymph  with  her  jet-black 
coronet  of  hair;  the  next,  Maggie  felt  herself,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  receiving  the  tribute  of  a  very  deep  blush  and 
a  very  deep  bow  from  a  person  towards  Avhom  she  herself  was 
conscious  of  timidity.  This  new  experience  was  very  agree- 
able to  her  —  so  agreeable,  that  it  almost  effaced  her  previous 
emotion  about  Philip.  There  was  a  new  brightness  in  her 
eyes,  and  a  very  becoming  flush  on  her  ciieek,  as  she  seated 
herself. 

"  I  hope  you  perceive  what  a  striking  likeness  you  drew 
the  day  before  yesterday,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  pretty  laugh  of 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  f599 

triumph.     She  enjoyed  her  lover's  confusion  —  the  advantage 
was  usually  on  his  side, 

"  This  designing  cousin  of  yours  quite  deceived  me,  Miss 
Tulliver,"  said  Stephen,  seating  himself  by  Lucy,  and  stooping 
to  play  with  Minny  —  only  looking  at  Maggie  furtively. 
'•'She  said  you  had  light  hair  and  blue  eyes." 

"Nay,  it  was  you  who  said  so,"  remonstrated  Lucy.  "I 
only  refrained  from  destroying  your  confidence  in  your  own 
second-sight." 

"  I  wish  I  could  always  err  in  the  same  way,"  said  Ste- 
phen, "and  find  reality  so  much  more  beautiful  than  my  pre- 
conceptions." 

"  Now  you  have  proved  yourself  equal  to  the  occasion,"  said 
Maggie,  "  and  said  what  it  was  incumbent  on  you  to  say  under 
the  circumstances." 

She  flashed  a  slightly  defiant  look  at  him :  it  was  clear  to 
her  that  he  had  been  drawing  a  satirical  portrait  of  her  before- 
hand. Lucy  had  said  he  was  inclined  to  be  satirical,  and 
Maggie  had  mentally  supplied  the  addition  —  "  and  rather 
conceited." 

"An  alarming  amount  of  devil  there,"  was  Stephen's  first 
thought.  The  second,  when  she  had  bent  over  her  work,  was, 
"I  wish  she  would  look  at  me  again."  The  next  was  to 
answer  — 

"  I  suppose  all  phrases  of  mere  compliment  have  their  turn 
to  be  true.  A  man  is  occasionally  grateful  Avhen  he  says 
'thank  you.'  It's  rather  hard  upon  him  that  he  must  use 
the  same  words  with  which  all  the  world  declines  a  disagree- 
able invitation  —  don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Tulliver  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  him  with  her  direct  glance; 
"  if  we  use  common  words  on  a  great  occasion,  they  are  the 
more  striking,  because  they  are  felt  at  once  to  have  a  particu- 
lar meaning,  like  old  banners,  or  every-day  clothes,  hung  up  in 
a  sacred  place." 

"Then  my  compliment  ought  to  be  eloquent,"  said  Stephen, 
really  not  quite  knowing  what  he  said  while  Maggie  looked 
at  him,  "seeing  that  the  words  were  so  far  beneath  the 
occasion," 


400  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

"  No  compliment  can  be  eloquent,  except  as  an  expression 
of  indifference,"  said  Maggie,  flushing  a  little. 

Lucy  was  rather  alarmed  :  she  thought  Stephen  and  Maggie 
were  not  going  to  like  each  other.  She  had  alwaj^  s  feared  lest 
Maggie  should  appear  too  odd  and  clever  to  please  that  critical 
gentleman.  "  Why,  dear  Maggie,"  she  interposed,  "  j^ou  have 
always  pretended  that  you  are  too  fond  of  being  admired ; 
and  now,  I  think,  you  are  angry  because  some  one  ventures  to 
admire  you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Maggie  ;  "  I  like  too  well  to  feel  that  1 
am  admired,  but  compliments  never  make  me  feel  that." 

"  I  will  never  pay  you  a  compliment  again,  Miss  Tulliver," 
said  Stephen. 

"  Thank  you ;  that  will  be  a  proof  of  respect." 

Poor  Maggie  !  She  was  so  unused  to  society  that  she  could 
take  nothing  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  had  never  in  her  life 
spoken  from  the  lips  merely,  so  that  she  must  necessarily  ap- 
pear absurd  to  more  experienced  ladies,  from  the  excessive 
feeling  she  was  apt  to  throw  into  very  trivial  incidents.  But 
she  was  even  conscious  herself  of  a  little  absurdity  in  this 
instance.  It  was  true  she  had  a  theoretic  objection  to  compli- 
ments, and  had  once  said  impatiently  to  Philip,  that  she  did  n't 
see  why  women  were  to  be  told  with  a  simper  that  they  were 
beautiful,  any  more  than  old  men  were  to  be  told  that  they 
were  venerable  :  still,  to  be  so  irritated  by  a  common  practice 
in  the  case  of  a  stranger  like  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  and  to  care 
about  his  having  spoken  slightingly  of  her  before  he  had  seen 
her,  was  certainly  unreasonable,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  silent 
she  began  to  be  ashamed  of  herself.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  her  irritation  was  due  to  the  pleasanter  emotion  which 
preceded  it,  just  as  when  we  are  satisfied  with  a  sense  of  glow- 
ing warmth,  an  innocent  drop  of  cold  water  may  fall  upon  us 
as  a  sudden  smart. 

Stephen  was  too  well-bred  not  to  seem  unaware  that  the 
previous  conversation  could  have  been  felt  embarrassing,  and 
at  once  began  to  talk  of  impersonal  matters,  asking  Lucy  if 
she  knew  when  the  bazaar  was  at  length  to  take  place,  so  that 
there  might  be  some  hope  of  seeing  her  rain  the  influence  of 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  401 

her  eyes  on  objects  more  grateful  than  those  worsted  flowers 
that  were  growing  under  her  fingers. 

"  Some  day  next  month,  I  believe,"  said  Lucy.  "  But  your 
sisters  are  doing  more  for  it  than  I  am  :  they  are  to  have  the 
largest  stall." 

"Ah  yes;  but  they  carry  on  their  manufactures  in  their 
own  sitting-room,  where  I  don't  intrude  on  them.  I  see  you 
are  not  addicted  to  the  fashionable  vice  of  fancy-work,  Miss 
Tulliver,"  said  Stephen,  looking  at  Maggie's  plain  hemming. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  "  I  can  do  nothing  more  difficult  or  more 
elegant  than  shirt-making." 

"  And  your  plain  sewing  is  so  beautiful,  Maggie,"  said  Lucy, 
"  that  I  think  I  shall  beg  a  few  specimens  of  you  to  show 
as  fancy-work.  Your  exquisite  sewing  is  quite  a  mystery  to 
me  —  you  used  to  dislike  that  sort  of  work  so  much  in  old 
days." 

"  It  is  a  mystery  easily  explained,  dear,"  said  Maggie,  look- 
ing up  quietly.  "  Plain  sewing  was  the  only  thing  I  could  get 
money  by ;  so  I  was  obliged  to  try  and  do  it  well." 

Lucy,  good  and  simple  as  she  was,  could  not  help  blushing  a 
little  :  she  did  not  quite  like  that  Stephen  should  know  that 
—  Maggie  need  not  have  mentioned  it.  Perhaps  there  was 
some  pride  in  the  confession :  the  pride  of  poverty  that  will 
not  be  ashamed  of  itself.  But  if  Maggie  had  been  the  queen 
of  coquettes  she  could  hardly  have  invented  a  means  of  giving 
greater  piquancy  to  her  beauty  in  Stephen's  eyes :  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  quiet  admission  of  plain  sewing  and  poverty 
would  have  done  alone,  but  assisted  by  the  beauty,  they  made 
Maggie  more  unlike  other  women  even  than  she  had  seemed 
at  first. 

"  But  I  can  knit,  Lucy,"  Maggie  went  on,  "  if  that  will  be  of 
any  use  for  your  bazaar." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  infinite  use.  I  shall  set  you  to  work  with  scarlet 
wool  to-morrow.  But  your  sister  is  the  most  enviable  person," 
continued  Lucy,  turning  to  Stephen,  "  to  have  the  talent  of 
modelling.  She  is  doing  a  wonderful  bust  of  Dr.  Kenn  entirely 
from  memory." 

"Why,  if  she  can  remember  to  put  the   eyes  very  near 

VOL.   II.  ^3 


402  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

together,  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth  very  far  apart,  tl 
likeness  can  hardly  fail  to  be  striking  in  St.  Ogg's." 

"  Now  that  is  very  wicked  of  you,"  said  Lucy,  looking  rat) 
hurt.     "I  didn't  think  you  would  speak  disrespectfully 
Dr.  Kenn." 

"  I  say  anything  disrespectful  of  Dr.  Kenn  ?  Heaven  for- 
bid !  But  I  am  not  bound  to  respect  a  libellous  bust  of  him. 
I  think  Kenn  one  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the  world.  I  don't 
care  much  about  the  tall  candlesticks  he  has  put  on  the 
communion-table,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  spoil  my  temper  by 
getting  up  to  early  prayers  every  morning.  But  he 's  the  only 
man  I  ever  knew  personally  who  seems  to  me  to  have  anything 
of  the  real  apostle  in  him — a  man  Avho  has  eight  hundred 
a-year  and  is  contented  with  deal  furniture  and  boiled  beef 
because  he  gives  away  two-thirds  of  his  income.  That  was  a 
very  fine  thing  of  him  —  taking  into  his  house  that  poor  lad 
Grattan  who  shot  his  mother  by  accident.  He  sacrifices  more 
time  than  a  less  busy  mar  could  spare,  to  save  the  poor  fellow 
from  getting  into  a  morbid  state  of  mind  about  it.  He  takes 
the  lad  out  with  him  constantly,  I  see." 

"That  is  beautiful,"  said  Maggie,  who  had  let  her  work 
fall,  and  was  listening  with  keen  interest.  "I  never  knew 
any  one  who  did  such  things." 

"And  one  admires  that  sort  of  action  in  Kenn  all  the 
more,"  said  Stephen,  "because  his  manners  in  general  are 
rather  cold  and  severe.  There 's  nothing  sugary  and  maudlin 
about  him." 

"  Oh,  I  think  he  's  a  perfect  character !  "  said  Lucy,  with 
pretty  enthusiasm. 

"'No;  there  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  said  Stephen,  shaking 
his  head  with  sarcastic  gravity. 

"  Now,  what  fault  can  you  point  out  in  him  ?  " 

"  He 's  an  Anglican." 

"Well,  those  are  the  right  views,  I  think,"  said  Lucy, 
gravely. 

"  That  settles  the  question  in  the  abstract,"  said  Stephen, 
"but  not  from  a  parliamentary  point  of  view.  He  has  set 
the  Dissenters  and  the   Church   people  by  the  ears  j  and  a 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  403 

rising  senator  like  myself,  of  whoso  services  the  country  is 
very  much  in  need,  will  find  it  inconvenient  when  he  puts  up 
for  the  honor  of  representing  St.  Ogg's  in  I'arliament." 

"  Do  you  really  think  of  that  ?  "  said  Lucy,  her  eyes  bright- 
ening with  a  proud  pleasure  that  made  her  neglect  the  argu- 
mentative interests  of  Anglicanism. 

"  Decidedly  —  whenever  old  Mr.  Leyburn's  public  spirit  and 
gout  induce  him  to  give  way.  My  father 's  heart  is  set  on  it ; 
and  gifts  like  mine,  you  know  "  —  here  Stephen  drew  himself 
up,  and  rubbed  his  large  white  hands  over  his  hair  with  play- 
ful self -admiration —  ''gifts  like  mine  involve  great  responsi- 
bilities.    Don't  you  think  so.  Miss  Tulliver  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  but  not  looking  up ;  "  so  much 
fluency  and  self-possession  should  not  be  wasted  entirely  on 
private  occasions." 

"  Ah,  I  see  how  much  penetration  you  have,"  said  Stephen. 
"You  have  discovered  already  tliat  I  am  talkative  and  impu- 
dent. Now  superficial  people  never  discern  that  —  owing  to 
my  manner,  I  suppose." 

"  She  does  n't  look  at  me  when  I  talk  of  myself,"  he 
thought,  while  his  listeners  were  laughing.  "I  must  try 
other  subjects." 

Did  Lucy  intend  to  be  present  at  the  meeting  of  the  Book 
Club  next  week  ?  was  the  next  question.  Then  followed  the 
recommendation  to  choose  Southey's  "  Life  of  Cowper,"'  unless 
she  were  inclined  to  be  philosophical,  and  startle  the  ladies  of 
St.  Ogg's  by  voting  for  one  of  the  Bridgewater  Treatises.  Of 
course  Lucy  wished  to  know  what  these  alarmingly  learned 
books  were ;  and  as  it  is  always  pleasant  to  improve  the  minds 
of  ladies  by  talking  to  them  at  ease  on  subjects  of  which  they 
know  nothing,  Stephen  became  qiiite  brilliant  in  an  account  of 
Buckland's  Treatise,  which  he  had  just  been  reading.  He  was 
rewarded  by  seeing  Maggie  let  her  work  fall,  and  gradually 
get  so  absorbed  in  his  wonderful  geological  story  that  she  sat 
looking  at  him,  leaning  forward  with  crossed  arms,  and  with 
an  entire  absence  of  self-consciousness,  as  if  he  had  been  the 
snuffiest  of  old  professors,  and  she  a  downy-lip])fd  alumnus. 
He  was  so  fascinated  by  this  clear,  large  gaze,  that  at  last  he 


404  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

forgot  to  look  away  from  it  occasionally  towards  Lucy  ;  but 
she,  sweet  child,  was  only  rejoicing  that  Stephen  was  proving 
to  Maggie  how  clever  he  was,  and  that  they  would  certainly 
be  good  friends  after  all. 

"  I  will  bring  you  the  book,  shall  I,  Miss  Tulliver  ?  "  said 
Stephen,  when  he  found  the  stream  of  his  recollections  run- 
ning rather  shallow.  "There  are  many  illustrations  in  it  that 
you  will  like  to  see." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  blushing  with  returning 
self-consciousness  at  this  direct  address,  and  taking  up  her 
work  again. 

"  No,  no,"  Lucy  interposed.  "  I  must  forbid  your  plunging 
Maggie  in  books.  I  shall  never  get  her  away  from  them ;  and 
I  want  her  to  have  delicious  do-nothing  days,  filled  with  boat- 
ing, and  chatting,  and  riding,  and  driving  :  that  is  the  holiday 
she  needs." 

"Apropos!"  said  Stephen,  looking  at  his  watch.  "Shall 
we  go  out  for  a  row  on  the  river  now  ?  The  tide  will  suit  for 
us  to  go  the  Tofton  way,  and  we  can  walk  back." 

That  was  a  delightful  proposition  to  Maggie,  for  it  was 
years  since  she  had  been  on  the  river.  When  she  was  gone 
to  put  on  her  bonnet,  Lucy  lingered  to  give  an  order  to  the 
servant,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  telling  Stephen  that 
Maggie  had  no  objection  to  seeing  Philip,  so  that  it  was  a 
pity  she  had  sent  that  note  the  day  before  yesterday.  But  she 
would  write  another  to-morrow  and  invite  him. 

"  I  '11  call  and  beat  him  up  to-morrow,"  said  Stephen,  "  and 
bring  him  with  me  in  the  evening,  shall  I  ?  My  sisters  will 
want  to  call  on  you  when  I  tell  them  your  cousin  is  with  you. 
I  must  leave  the  field  clear  for  them  in  the  morning." 

"  Oh  yes,  pray  bring  him,"  said  Lucy.  "  And  you  ivill  like 
Maggie,  shan't  you  ?"  she  added,  in  a  beseeching  tone.  "  Is  n't 
she  a  dear,  noble-looking  creature  ?  " 

"  Too  tall,"  said  Stephen,  smiling  down  upon  her,  "  and  a 
little  too  fiery.     She  is  not  my  type  of  woman,  you  know." 

Gentlemen,  you  are  aware,  are  apt  to  impart  these  impru- 
dent confidences  to  ladies  concerning  their  unfavorable  opin- 
ion of  sister  fair  ones.     That  is  why  so  many  vomeu  have 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  405 

the  advantage  of  knowing  that  they  are  secretly  repulsive  to 
men  who  have  self-denyingiy  made  ardent  love  to  them.  And 
hardly  anything  could  be  more  distinctively  characteristic  of 
Lucy,  than  that  she  both  implicitly  believed  what  Stephen 
said,  and  was  determined  that  Maggie  should  not  know  it. 
But  you,  who  have  a  higher  logic  than  the  verbal  to  guide 
you,  have  already  foreseen,  as  the  direct  sequence  to  that  un- 
favorable opinion  of  Stephen's,  that  he  walked  down  to  the 
boat-house  calculating,  by  the  aid  of  a  vivid  imagination,  that 
Maggie  must  give  him  her  hand  at  least  twice  in  consequence 
of  this  pleasant  boating  plan,  and  that  a  gentleman  who  wishes 
ladies  to  look  at  him  is  advantageously  situated  when  he  ii 
rowing  them  in  a  boat.  What  then  ?  Had  he  fallen  in  love 
with  this  surprising  daughter  of  Mrs.  Tulliver  at  first  sight  ? 
Certainly  not.  Such  passions  are  never  heard  of  in  real  life. 
Besides,  he  was  in  love  already,  and  half-engaged  to  the 
dearest  little  creature  in  the  world ;  and  he  was  not  a  man  to 
make  a  fool  of  himself  in  any  way.  But  when  one  is  five-and- 
twenty,  one  has  not  chalk-stones  at  one's  finger-ends  that  the 
touch  of  a  handsome  girl  should  be  entirely  indifferent.  It 
was  perfectly  natural  and  safe  to  admire  beauty  and  enjoy 
looking  at  it  —  at  least  under  such  circumstances  as  the  pres- 
ent. And  there  was  really  something  very  interesting  about 
this  girl,  with  her  poverty  and  troubles  :  it  was  gratifying 
to  see  the  friendship  between  the  two  cousins.  Generally, 
Stephen  admitted,  he  was  not  fond  of  women  who  had  any 
peculiarity  of  character  —  but  here  the  peculiarity  seemed 
really  of  a  superior  kind ;  and  provided  one  is  not  obliged  to 
marry  such  women,  why,  they  certainly  make  a  variety  in 
social  intercourse. 

Maggie  did  not  fulfil  Stephen's  hope  by  looking  at  him  dur- 
ing the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  :  her  eyes  were  too  full  of  the 
old  banks  that  she  knew  so  well.  She  felt  lonely,  cut  off  from 
Philip  —  the  only  person  who  had  ever  seemed  to  love  her 
devotedly,  as  she  had  always  longed  to  be  loved.  But  pres- 
ently the  rhythmic  movement  of  the  oars  attracted  her,  and  she 
thought  she  should  like  to  learn  how  to  row.  This  roused  her 
from  her  reverie,  and  she  asked  if  she  might  take  an  oar.      It 


406  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

appeared  that  she  required  much  teaching,  and  she  became  am- 
bitious. The  exercise  brought  the  warm  blood  into  her  cheeks, 
and  made  her  inclined  to  take  her  lesson  merrily. 

"I  shall  not  be  satisfied  until  I  can  manage  both  oars,  and 
row  you  and  Lucy,"  she  said,  looking  very  bright  as  she 
stepped  out  of  the  boat.  Maggie,  we  know,  was  apt  to  for- 
get the  thing  she  was  doing,  and  she  had  chosen  an  inoppor- 
tune moment  for  her  remark:  her  foot  slipped,  but  happily 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest  held  her  hand,  and  kept  her  up  with  a  firm 
grasp. 

*'  You  have  not  hurt  yourself  at  all,  I  hope  ?  "  he  said,  bend- 
ing to  look  in  her  face  with  anxiety.  It  was  very  charming  to 
be  taken  care  of  in  that  kind  graceful  manner  by  some  one 
taller  and  stronger  than  one's  self.  Maggie  had  never  felt 
just  in  the  same  way  before. 

When  they  reached  home  again,  they  found  uncle  and 
aunt  Pullet  seated  with  Mrs.  Tulliver  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  Stephen  hurried  away,  asking  leave  to  come  again  in  the 
evening. 

"  And  pray  bring  with  you  the  volume  of  Purcell  that  you 
took  away,"  said  Lucy.      "  I  want  Maggie  to  hear  your  best 


songs." 


Aunt  Pullet,  under  the  certainty  that  Maggie  would  be  in- 
vited to  go  out  with  Lucy,  probably  to  Park  House,  was  much 
shocked  at  the  shabbiness  of  her  clothes,  which,  when  wit- 
nessed by  the  higher  society  of  St.  Ogg's,  would  be  a  discredit 
to  the  family,  that  demanded  a  strong  and  prompt  remedy ; 
and  the  consultation  as  to  what  would  be  most  suitable  to  this 
end  from  among  the  superfluities  of  Mrs.  Pullet's  wardrobe, 
was  one  that  Lucy  as  well  as  Mrs.  Tulliver  entered  into  with 
some  zeal.  Maggie  must  really  have  an  evening-dress  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  she  was  about  the  same  height  as  aunt  Pullet. 

"  Bat  she  's  so  much  broader  across  the  shoulders  than  I  am 
—  it's  very  ill-convenient,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "else  she  might 
wear  that  beautiful  black  brocade  o'  mine  without  any  alter- 
ation;  and  her  arms  are  beyond  everything,"  added  Mrs. 
Pullet,  sorrowfully,  as  she  lifted  Maggie's  large  round  arm, 
"She'd  never  get  my  sleeves  on." 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  407 

"Oh,  never  miud  that,  aunt:  pray  send  us  the  dress,"?  aaid 
Lucy.  "  I  don't  mean  Maggie  to  have  long  sleeves,  and  I  ihavo 
abundance  of  black  lace  for  trimming.  Her  arms  will  lft)ok 
beautiful." 

"Maggie's  arms  are  a  pretty  shape,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 
"They  're  like  mine  used  to  be  —  only  mine  was  never  brown : 
I  wish  she  'd  had  our  family  skin." 

"  Nonsense,  avmty  ! "  said  Lucy,  patting  her  aunt  Tulliver's 
shoulder,  "  you  don't  understand  those  things.  A  painter 
would  think  Maggie's  complexion  beautiful." 

"  Maybe,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  submissively.  "  You 
know  better  than  I  do.  Only  when  I  was  young  a  brown  skin 
was  n't  thought  well  on  among  respectable  folks." 

"No,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  who  took  intense  interest  in  the 
ladies'  conversation  as  he  sucked  his  lozenges.  "  Though  there 
was  a  song  about  the  '  Nut-brown  Maid,'  too  ;  I  think  she  was 
crazy  —  crazy  Kate  —  but  I  can't  justly  remember." 

"  Oh  dear,  dear !  "  said  Maggie,  laughing,  but  impatient ;  "  I 
think  that  will  be  the  end  of  7ny  brown  skin,  if  it  is  always  to 
be  talked  about  so  much." 


■»■' '  ♦ 


CHAPTER    III. 

CONFIDENTIAL    MOMENTS. 

When  Maggie  went  up  to  her  bedroom  that  night,  it  ap- 
peared that  she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  undress.  She  set 
down  her  candle  on  the  first  table  that  presented  itself,  and 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  her  room,  which  was  a  large  one, 
with  a  firm,  regular,  and  rather  rapid  step,  which  showed  that 
the  exercise  was  the  instinctive  vent  of  strong  excitement. 
Her  eyes  and  cheeks  had  an  almost  feverish  brilliancy  ;  her 
head  was  thrown  backward,  and  her  hands  were  clasped  with 
the  palms  outward,  and  with  that  tension  of  the  arms  which 
is  apt  to  accompany  mental  absorption. 


408    I  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

jjafd  anything  remarkable  happened  ? 

]sfr^ thing  that  you  are  not  likely  to  consider  in  the  highest 
jgcr/ree  unimportant.  She  had  been  hearing  some  fine  music 
gu'ug  by  a  fine  bass  voice  —  but  then  it  was  sung  in  a  provincial, 
amateur  fashion,  such  as  would  have  left  a  critical  ear  much 
to  desire.  And  she  was  conscious  of  having  been  looked  at  a 
great  deal,  in  rather  a  furtive  manner,  from  beneath  a  pair  of 
well-marked  horizontal  eyebrows,  with  a  glance  that  seemed 
somehow  to  have  caught  the  vibratory  influence  of  the  voice. 
Such  thnigs  could  have  had  no  perceptible  effect  on  a  thor- 
oughly well-educated  young  lady,  with  a  perfectly  balanced 
mind,  who  had  had  all  the  advantages  of  fortune,  training, 
and  refined  society.  But  if  Maggie  had  been  that  young  lady, 
you  would  probably  have  known  nothing  about  her  :  her  life 
would  have  had  so  few  vicissitudes  that  it  could  hardly  have 
been  written ;  for  the  happiest  women,  like  the  happiest  na- 
tions, have  no  history. 

In  poor  Maggie's  highly  strung,  hungry  nature  —  just  come 
away  from  a  third-rate  schoolroom,  with  all  its  jarring  sounds 
and  petty  round  of  tasks  —  these  apparently  trivial  causes 
had  the  effect  of  rousing  and  exalting  her  imagination  in  a  way 
that  was  mysterious  to  herself.  It  was  not  that  she  thought 
distinctly  of  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  or  dwelt  on  the  indications 
that  he  looked  at  her  with  admiration  ;  it  Avas  rather  that  she 
felt  the  half-remote  presence  of  a  world  of  love  and  beauty 
and  delight,  made  up  of  vague,  mingled  images  from  all  the 
poetry  and  romance  she  had  ever  read,  or  had  ever  woven  in 
her  dreamy  reveries.  Her  mind  glanced  back  once  or  twice 
to  the  time  when  she  had  courted  privation,  when  she  had 
thought  all  longing,  all  impatience  was  subdued ;  but  that 
condition  seemed  irrecoverably  gone,  and  she  recoiled  from 
the  remembrance  of  it.  No  prayer,  no  striving  now,  would 
bring  back  that  negative  peace  :  the  battle  of  her  life,  it  seemed, 
was  not  to  be  decided  in  that  short  and  easy  way  —  by  perfect 
renunciation  at  the  very  threshold  of  her  youth.  The  music 
was  vibrating  in  her  still  —  Purcell's  music,  with  its  wild  pas- 
sion and  fancy  —  and  she  could  not  stay  in  the  recollection  of 
that  bare,  lonely  past.     She  was  in  her  brighter  aerial  world 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  409 

again,  when  a  little  tap  came  at  the  door :  of  course  it  was  her 
cousin,  who  entered  in  ample  white  dressing-gown. 

"Why,  Maggie,  you  naughty  child,  haven't  you  begun  to 
undress?"  said  Lucy,  iu  astouishmeut.  "I  promised  not  to 
come  and  talk  to  you,  because  I  thought  you  must  be  tired. 
But  here  you  are,  looking  as  if  you  were  ready  to  dress  for  a 
ball.  Come,  come,  get  on  your  dressing-gown  and  unplait  your 
hair." 

"Well,  you  are  not  very  forward,"  retorted  Maggie,  hastily 
reaching  her  own  pink  cotton  gown,  and  looking  at  Lucy's 
light-brown  hair  brushed  back  in  curly  disorder. 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  much  to  do.  I  shall  sit  down  and  talk  to 
you  till  I  see  you  are  really  on  the  way  to  bed." 

While  Maggie  stood  and  uuplaited  her  long  black  hair  over 
her  pink  drapery,  Lucy  sat  down  near  the  toilet-table,  watch- 
ing her  with  affectionate  eyes,  and  head  a  little  aside,  like  a 
pretty  spaniel.  If  it  appears  to  you  at  all  incredible  that 
young  ladies  should  be  led  on  to  talk  confidentially  in  a  situa- 
tion of  this  kind,  I  will  beg  you  to  remember  that  human  life 
furnishes  many  exceptional  cases. 

"  You  really  have  enjoyed  the  music  to-night,  have  n't  you, 
Maggie  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  that  is  what  prevents  me  from  feeling  sleepy.  I 
think  I  should  have  no  other  mortal  wants,  if  I  could  always 
have  plenty  of  music.  It  seems  to  infuse  strength  into  my 
limbs,  and  ideas  into  my  brain.  Life  seems  to  go  on  without 
effort,  when  I  am  filled  with  music.  At  other  times  one  is 
conscious  of  carrying  a  weight." 

"  And  Stephen  has  a  splendid  voice,  has  n't  he  ?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  are  neither  of  us  judges  of  that,"  said 
Maggie,  laughing,  as  she  seated  herself  and  tossed  her  long 
hair  back.  "  You  are  not  impartial,  and  /  think  any  barrel- 
organ  splendid." 

"  But  tell  me  what  you  think  of  him,  now.  Tell  me  exactly 
—  good  and  bad  too." 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  should  humiliate  him  a  little.  A  lover 
should  not  be  so  much  at  ease,  and  so  self-coufident.  He 
ought  to  tremble  more." 


410  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

"  Nonsense,  Maggie  !  As  if  any  one  could  tremble  at  me ! 
You  think  lie  is  conceited  —  I  see  that.  But  you  don't  dislike 
him,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Dislike  him  !  No.  Am  I  in  the  habit  of  seeing  such 
charming  people,  that  I  should  be  very  difficult  to  please  ? 
Besides,  how  could  I  dislike  any  one  that  promised  to  make 
you  happy,  you  dear  thing  ! "  Maggie  pinched  Lucy's  dimpled 
chin. 

"  We  shall  have  move  music  to-morrow  evening,"  said  Lucy, 
looking  happy  already,  "'  for  Stephen  will  bring  Philip  Wakem 
with  him." 

"  Oh,  Lucy,  I  can't  see  him,"  said  Maggie,  turning  pale^  "  At 
least,  I  could  not  see  him  without  Tom's  leave." 

"  Is  Tom  such  a  tyrant  as  that  ?  "  said  Lucy,  surprised.  "  I  '11 
take  the  responsibility,  then  —  tell  him  it  was  my  fault." 

"  But,  dear,"  said  Maggie,  falteringly,  "  I  promised  Tom 
very  solemnly  —  before  my  father's  death — I  promised  him  I 
would  not  speak  to  Philip  without  his  knowledge  and  consent. 
And  I  have  a  great  dread  of  opening  the  subject  with  Tom  — 
of  getting  into  a  quarrel  with  him  again." 

"  But  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  strange  and  unreason- 
able. What  harm  can  poor  Philip  have  done  ?  May  I  speak 
to  Tom  about  it  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  pray  don't,  dear,"  said  Maggie.  "I'll  go  to  him 
myself  to-morrow,  and  tell  him  that  you  wish  Philip  to  come. 
I  've  thought  before  of  asking  him  to  absolve  me  from  my  prom- 
ise, but  I  've  not  had  the  courage  to  determine  on  it." 

They  were  both  silent  for  some  moments,  and  then  Lucy 
said  — 

"  Maggie,  you  have  secrets  from  me,  and  I  have  none  from 
you." 

Maggie  looked  meditatively  away  from  Lucy.  Then  she 
turned  to  her  and  said,  "I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  Philip. 
But,  Lucy,  you  must  not  betray  that  you  know  it  to  any  one 
—  least  of  all  to  Philip  himself,  or  to  Mr.  Stephen  Guest." 

The  narrative  lasted  long,  for  Maggie  had  never  before 
known  the  relief  of  such  an  outpouring :  she  had  never  before 
told  Lucy  anything  of  her  inmost  life  j  and  the  sweet  face 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION.  411 

bent  towards  her  with  sympathetic  interest,  and  the  little 
hand  pressing  hers,  encouraged  her  to  speak  on.  On  two 
points  only  she  was  not  expansive.  She  did  not  betray  fully 
what  still  rankled  in  her  mind  as  Tom's  great  otienoe — the 
insults  he  had  heaped  on  Philip.  Angry  as  the  remembrance 
still  made  her,  she  could  not  bear  that  any  one  else  should 
know  it  all  —  both  for  Tom's  sake  and  Thilip's.  And  she  could 
not  bear  to  tell  Lucy  of  the  last  scene  between  her  father  and 
Wakem,  though  it  was  this  scene  which  she  had  ever  since 
felt  to  be  a  new  barrier  between  herself  and  Philip.  She 
merely  said,  she  saw  now  that  Tom  was,  on  the  whole,  right 
in  regarding  any  prospect  of  love  and  marriage  between  her 
and  Philip  as  put  out  of  the  question  by  the  relation  of  the  two 
families.     Of  course  Philip's  father  would  never  consent. 

"  There,  Lucy,  you  have  had  iny  story,"  said  Maggie,  smiling, 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  You  see  I  am  like  Sir  Andrew 
Aguecheek  —  /  was  adored  once." 

"  Ah,  now  I  see  how  it  is  you  know  Shakespeare  and  every- 
thing, and  have  learned  so  much  since  you  left  school ;  which 
always  seemed  to  me  witchcraft  before  —  part  of  your  general 
uucanniness,"  said  Lucy. 

She  mused  a  little  with  her  eyes  downward,  and  then  added, 
looking  at  Maggie,  "  It  is  very  beautiful  that  you  should  love 
Philip:  I  never  thought  such  a  happiness  would  befall  him. 
And  in  my  opinion,  you  ought  not  to  give  him  up.  There  are 
obstacles  now  ;  but  they  may  be  done  away  with  in  time." 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

"Yes,  yes,"  persisted  Lucy;  "I  can't  help  being  hopeful 
about  it.  There  is  something  romantic  in  it  —  out  of  the 
common  way  —  just  what  everything  that  happens  to  you 
ought  to  be.  And  Philip  will  adore  you  like  a  husband  in  a 
fairy  tale.  Oh,  I  shall  puzzle  my  small  brain  to  contrive  some 
plot  that  will  bring  everybody  into  the  right  mind,  so  that  you 
may  marry  Philip,  when  I  marry  —  somebody  else.  Would  n't 
that  be  a  pretty  ending  to  all  my  poor,  poor  Maggie's 
troubles  ?  " 

Maggie  tried  to  smile,  but  shivered,  as  if  she  felt  a  sudden 

chill. 


412  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Ah,  deal,  you  are  cold,"  said  Lucy.  "  You  must  go  to  bed  5 
and  so  must  I.     I  dare  not  think  what  time  it  is." 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  Lucy  went  away  —  possessed  of 
a  confidence  which  had  a  strong  influence  over  her  subsequent 
impressions.  Maggie  had  been  thoroughly  sincere :  her  nature 
had  never  found  it  easy  to  be  otherwise.  But  confidences  are 
sometimes  blinding,  even  when  they  are  sincere. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BROTHER   AND    SISTER. 

Maggie  was  obliged  to  go  to  Tom's  lodgings  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  when  he  would  be  coming  in  to  dinner,  else  she 
would  not  have  found  him  at  home.  He  was  not  lodging  with 
entire  strangers.  Our  friend  Bob  Jakin  had,  with  Mumps's 
tacit  consent,  taken  not  only  a  wife  about  eight  months  ago, 
but  also  one  of  those  queer  old  houses,  pierced  with  surprising 
passages,  by  the  water-side,  where,  as  he  observed,  his  wife 
and  mother  could  keep  themselves  out  of  mischief  by  letting 
out  two  ''  pleasure-boats,"  in  which  he  had  invested  some  of 
his  savings,  and  by  taking  in  a  lodger  for  the  parlor  and  spare 
bedroom.  Under  these  circumstances,  what  could  be  better 
for  the  interests  of  all  parties,  sanitary  considerations  apart, 
than  that  the  lodger  should  be  Mr.  Tom  ? 

It  was  Bob's  wife  who  opened  the  door  to  Maggie.  She  was 
a  tiny  woman,  with  the  general  physiognomy  of  a  Dutch  doll, 
looking,  in  comparison  with  Bob's  mother,  who  filled  up  the 
passage  in  the  rear,  very  much  like  one  of  those  human  figures 
which  the  artist  finds  conveniently  standing  near  a  colossal 
statue  to  show  the  proportions.  The  tiny  woman  curtsied  and 
looked  up  at  Maggie  with  some  awe  as  soon  as  she  had  opened 
the  door ;  but  the  words,  "  Is  my  brother  at  home  ? "  which 
Maggie  uttered  smilingly,  made  her  turn  round  with  sudden 
excitement,  and  say  — 

'•'  Eh,   mother,    mother  —  tell    Bob  !  —  it 's    Miss    Maggie  ! 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  413 

Come  in,  Miss,  for  goodness  do,"  she  went  on,  opening  a  side 
door,  and  endeavoring  to  flatten  her  person  against  the  wall  to 
make  the  utmost  space  for  the  visitor. 

Sad  recollections  crowded  on  Maggie  as  she  entered  the 
small  parlor,  which  was  now  all  that  poor  Tom  had  to  call  by 
the  name  of  "home"  —  that  name  which  had  once,  so  many- 
years  ago,  meant  for  both  of  them  the  same  sum  of  dear  famil- 
iar objects.  But  everything  was  not  strange  to  her  in  this 
new  room :  the  first  thing  her  eyes  dwelt  on  was  the  large  old 
Bible,  and  the  sight  was  not  likely  to  disperse  the  old  memo- 
ries.    She  stood  without  speaking. 

"  If  you  please  to  take  the  privilege  o'  sitting  down,  j\Iiss," 
said  Mrs.  Jakin,  rubbing  her  apron  over  a  perfectly  clean 
chair,  and  then  lifting  up  the  corner  of  that  garment  and  hold- 
ing it  to  her  face  with  an  air  of  embarrassment,  as  she  looked 
wonderingly  at  Maggie. 

"  Bob  is  at  home,  then  ?  "  said  Maggie,  recovering  herself, 
and  smiling  at  the  bashful  Dutch  doll. 

"  Yes,  Miss  ;  but  I  think  he  must  be  washing  and  dressing 
himself — I'll  go  and  see,"  said  Mrs.  Jakin,  disappearing. 

But  she  presently  came  back  walking  with  new  courage  a 
little  way  behind  her  husband,  who  showed  the  brilliancy  of 
his  blue  eyes  and  regular  white  teeth  in  the  doorway,  bowing 
respectfully. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Bob  ?  "  said  Maggie,  coming  forward  and 
putting  out  her  hand  to  him  ;  "  I  always  meant  to  pay  your 
wife  a  visit,  and  I  shall  come  another  day  on  purpose  for  that, 
if  she  will  let  me.  But  I  was  obliged  to  come  to-day  to  speak 
to  my  brother." 

"  He  '11  be  in  before  long,  Miss.  He 's  doin'  finely,  Mr.  Tom 
is  :  he  '11  be  one  o'  the  first  men  hereabouts  —  you  '11  see  that." 

"  Well,  Bob,  I  'm  sure  he  '11  be  indebted  to  you,  whatever  he 
becomes  :  he  said  so  himself  only  the  other  night,  when  he  was 
talking  of  you." 

''Eh,  Miss,  that's  his  way  o'  takin'  it.  But  I  think  the 
more  on  't  when  he  says  a  thing,  because  his  tongue  does  n't 
overshoot  him  as  mine  does.  Lors  !  I  'm  no  better  nor  a  tilted 
bottle,  I  arn't  —  I  can't  stop  mysen  when  once  I  begin.     But 


414  THE   MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

you  look  rarely,  Miss  —  it  does  me  good  to  see  you.  What  do 
you  say  now,  Prissy  ?  "  — -  here  Bob  turned  to  his  wife.  "  Is  n't 
it  all  come  true  as  I  said  ?  Though  there  is  n't  many  sorts  o' 
goods  as  I  can't  over-praise  when  I  set  my  tongue  to  't." 

Mrs.  Bob's  small  nose  seemed  to  be  following  the  example 
of  her  eyes  in  turning  up  reverentially  towards  Maggie,  but 
she  was  able  now  to  smile  and  curtsy,  and  say,  "  I  'd  looked 
forrard  like  aenything  to  seein'  you,  Miss,  for  my  husband's 
tongue  's  been  runnin'  on  you,  like  as  if  he  was  light-headed, 
iver  since  first  he  come  a-courtiu'  on  me." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Bob,  looking  rather  silly.  "  Go  an'  see 
after  the  taters,  else  Mr.  Tom  'nil  have  to  wait  for  'em." 

"I  hope  Mumps  is  friendly  with  Mrs.  Jakin,  Bob,"  said 
Maggie,  smiling.  ''  I  remember  you  used  to  say,  he  wouldn't 
like  your  marrying." 

"Eh,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  grinning,  "he  made  up  his  mind  to  't 
when  he  see'd  what  a  little  un  she  was.  He  pretends  not  to 
see  her  mostly,  or  else  to  think  as  she  is  n't  full-growed.  But 
about  Mr.  Tom,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  speaking  lower  and  looking 
serious,  "  he 's  as  close  as  a  iron  biler,  he  is  ;  but  I  'm  a  'cutish 
chap,  an'  when  I  've  left  off  carrying  my  pack,  an'  am  at  a 
loose  end,  I  've  got  more  brains  nor  I  know  what  to  do  wi',  an' 
I  'm  forced  to  busy  myself  wi'  other  folks's  insides.  An'  it 
worrets  me  as  Mr.  Tom  '11  sit  by  himself  so  glumpish,  a-knittin' 
his  brow,  an'  a-lookin'  at  the  fire  of  a  night.  He  should  be  a 
bit  livelier  now  —  a  fine  young  fellow  like  him.  My  wife  says, 
when  she  goes  in  sometimes,  an'  he  takes  no  notice  of  her,  he 
sits  lookin'  into  the  fire,  and  frownin'  as  if  he  was  watchin' 
folks  at  work  in  it." 

"  He  thinks  so  much  about  business,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Ay,"  said  Bob,  speaking  lower ;  "  but  do  you  think  it 's 
nothin'  else,  Miss  ?  He  's  close,  Mr.  Tom  is ;  but  I  'm  a  'cute 
chap,  I  am,  an'  I  thought  tow'rt  last  Christmas  as  I  'd  found 
out  a  soft  place  in  him.  It  was  about  a  little  black  spaniel  — 
a  rare  bit  o'  breed  —  as  he  made  a  fuss  to  get.  But  since  then 
summat  's  come  over  him,  as  he  's  set  his  teeth  again'  thinge 
more  nor  iver,  for  all  he  's  had  such  good  luck.  An'  I  wanted 
to  tell  you,  Miss,  'cause  I  thought  you  might  work  it  out  of 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  415 

him  a  bit,  now  you  're  come.  He  's  a  deal  too  lonely,  and 
does  n't  go  into  company  enough." 

'•'  I  'm  afraid  I  have  very  little  power  over  him,  Bob,"  said 
Maggie,  a  good  deal  moved  by  Bob's  suggestion.  It  waa  a 
totally  new  idea  to  her  mind,  that  Tom  could  have  his  love 
troubles.  Poor  fellow  !  —  and  in  love  with  Lucy  too  !  But  it 
was  perhaps  a  mere  fancy  of  Bob's  too  officious  brain.  The 
present  of  the  dog  meant  nothing  more  than  cousinsluf  and 
gratitude.  But  Bob  had  already  said,  "  Here 's  Mr.  Tom," 
and  the  outer  door  was  opening. 

"  There  's  no  time  to  spare,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  as  soon  as 
Bob  had  left  the  room.  "  I  must  tell  you  at  once  wliat  I  came 
about,  else  I  shall  be  hindering  you  from  taking  your  dinner," 

Tom  stood  with  his  back  against  the  chimney-piece,  and 
Maggie  was  seated  opposite  the  light.  He  noticed  that  she 
was  tremulous,  and  he  had  a  presentiment  of  the  subject  she 
was  going  to  speak  about.  The  presentiment  made  his  voice 
colder  and  harder  as  he  said,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

This  tone  roused  a  spirit  of  resistance  in  Maggie,  and  she 
put  her  request  in  quite  a  different  form  from  the  one  she  had 
predetermined  on.  She  rose  from  her  seat,  and,  looking 
straight  at  Tom,  said  — 

"  I  want  you  to  absolve  me  from  my  promise  about  Philip 
Wakem.  Or  rather,  I  promised  you  not  to  see  him  without 
telling  you.     I  am  come  to  tell  you  that  I  wish  to  see  him." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Tom,  still  more  coldly. 

But  Maggie  had  hardly  finished  speaking  in  that  chill, 
defiant  manner,  before  she  repented,  and  felt  the  dread  of 
alienation  from  her  brother. 

"  Not  for  myself,  dear  Tom.  Don't  be  angry.  I  should  n't 
have  asked  it,  only  that  Philip,  you  know,  is  a  friend  of  Lucy's, 
and  she  wishes  him  to  come  —  has  invited  him  to  come  tliis 
evening;  and  I  told  her  I  couldn't  see  him  witliout  telling 
you.  I  shall  only  see  him  in  the  presence  of  other  people. 
There  will  never  be  anything  secret  between  us  again." 

Tom  looked  away  from  Maggie,  knitting  his  brow  more 
strongly  for  a  little  while.  Then  he  turned  to  her  and  said, 
slowly  and  emphatically  — 


416  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  You  know  what  is  my  feeling  on  that  subject,  Maggie. 
There  is  no  need  for  my  repeating  anything  I  said  a  year  ago. 
While  my  father  was  living,  I  felt  bound  to  use  the  utmost 
power  over  you,  to  prevent  you  from  disgracing  him  as  well 
as  yourself,  and  all  of  us.  But  now  I  must  leave  you  to  your 
own  choice.  You  wish  to  be  independent  —  you  told  me  so 
after  my  father's  death.  My  opinion  is  not  changed.  If  you 
think  of  Philip  Wakem  as  a  lover  again,  you  must  give 
up  me." 

"  I  don't  wish  it,  dear  Tom  — at  least  as  things  are :  I  see 
that  it  would  lead  to  misery.  But  I  shall  soon  go  away  to 
another  situation,  and  I  should  like  to  be  friends  with  him 
again  while  I  am  here.     Lucy  wishes  it." 

The  severity  of  Tom's  face  relaxed  a  little. 

"  I  should  n't  mind  your  seeing  him  occasionally  at  my 
uncle's  —  I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  fuss  on  the  subject. 
But  I  have  no  confidence  in  you,  Maggie.  You  would  be  led 
away  to  do  anything." 

That  was  a  cruel  word.     Maggie's  lip  began  to  tremble. 

"  Why  will  you  say  that,  Tom  ?  It  is  very  hard  of  you. 
Have  I  not  done  and  borne  everything  as  well  as  I  could  ? 
And  I  have  kept  my  word  to  you  —  when  —  when  .  .  .  My 
life  has  not  been  a  happy  one,  any  more  than  yours." 

She  was  obliged  to  be  childish  —  the  tears  would  come. 
When  Maggie  was  not  angry,  she  was  as  dependent  on  kind  or 
cold  words  as  a  daisy  on  the  sunshine  or  the  cloud  :  the  need 
of  being  loved  would  always  subdue  her,  as,  in  old  days,  it 
subdued  her  in  the  worm-eaten  attic.  The  brother's  goodness 
came  uppermost  at  this  appeal,  but  it  could  only  show  itself 
in  Tom"s  fashion.  He  put  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm,  and 
said,  in  the  tone  of  a  kind  pedagogue  — 

"  Now  listen  to  me,  Maggie.  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  mean. 
You're  always  in  extremes  — you  have  no  judgment  and  self- 
command;  and  yet  you  think  you  know  best,  and  will  not 
submit  to  be  guided.  You  know  I  did  n't  wish  you  to  take  a 
situation.  My  aunt  Pullet  was  willing  to  give  you  a  good 
home,  and  you  might  have  lived  respectably  amongst  your 
relations,  until  I  could  have  provided  a  home  for  you  with  my 


THE   GREAT   TEMl'TATION.  417 

motiier.  And  that  is  what  I  should  like  to  do.  I  wished  my 
sistsr  to  be  a  lady,  and  I  would  always  have  taken  care  of  you, 
as  toy  father  desired,  until  you  were  well  married.  But  your 
ideas  and  mine  never  accord,  and  you  will  not  give  way.  Yet 
you  might  have  sense  enough  to  see  that  a  brother,  who  goes 
out  into  tiie  world  and  mixes  with  men,  necessarily  knows 
better  what  is  right  and  respectable  for  his  sister  than  she 
can  know  l.erself.  You  think  I  am  not  kind  ;  but  my  kind- 
ness can  Oiily  be  directed  by  what  I  believe  to  be  good  for 
you," 

"  Yes  —  [  know  —  dear  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  still  half- 
sobbing,  buti  trying  to  control  her  tears.  "  I  know  you  would 
do  a  great  deal  for  me :  I  know  how  you  work,  and  don't 
spare  yourself.  I  am  grateful  to  you.  But,  indeed,  you  can't 
quite  judg«s  for  me  —  our  natures  are  very  different.  You 
don't  know  .low  differently  things  affect  me  from  what  they 
do  you." 

*' Yes,  I  av  know  :  I  know  it  too  well.  I  know  how  differ- 
ently you  must  feel  about  all  that  affects  our  family,  and  your 
own  dignity  as  a  young  woman,  before  you  could  think  of 
receiving  secret  addresses  from  Philip  Wakem.  If  it  was 
not  disgusting  to  me  in  every  other  way,  I  should  object  to 
my  sister's  name  being  associated  for  a  moment  with  that  of  a 
young  man  whose  father  must  hate  the  very  thought  of  us  all, 
and  would  spurn  you.  With  any  one  but  you,  I  should  think 
it  quite  certain  that  what  you  witnessed  just  before  my 
father's  death  would  secure  you  from  ever  thinking  again  of 
Philip  Wakem  as  a  lover.  But  I  don't  feel  certain  of  it  with 
you  —  I  never  feel  certain  about  anything  with  you.  At  one 
time  you  take  pleasure  in  a  sort  of  perverse  self-denial,  and  at 
another  you  have  not  resolution  to  resist  a  thing  that  yoT. 
know  to  be  Avrong." 

There  was  a  terrible  cutting  truth  in  Tom's  words  —  that 
hard  rind  of  truth  which  is  discerned  by  unimaginative,  un- 
sympathetic minds.  Maggie  always  wiithed  under  this  judg- 
ment of  Tom's  :  she  rebelled  and  was  humiliated  in  the  same 
moment :  it  seemed  as  if  he  held  a  glass  before  her  to  show 
her  her  own  folly  and  weakness — as  if  he  were  a  prophetic 
VOL.  11.  27 


418  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

voice  predicting  her  future  fallings  —  and  yet,  all  the  while, 
she  judged  him  in  return  :  she  said  inwardly  that  he  was  nar- 
row and  unjust,  that  he  was  below  feeling  those  mental  needs 
which  were  often  the  source  of  the  wrong-doing  or  absurdity 
that  made  her  life  a  planless  riddle  to  him. 

She  did  not  answer  directly  :  her  heart  was  too  full,  and  she 
sat  down,  leaning  her  arm  on  the  table.  It  was  no  use  trying 
to  make  Tom  feel  that  she  was  near  to  him.  He  always  re- 
pelled her.  Her  feeling  under  his  words  was  complicated  by 
the  allusion  to  the  last  scene  between  her  father  and  Wakem  ; 
and  at  length  that  painful,  solemn  memory  surmounted  the 
immediate  grievance.  No  !  She  did  not  think  of  such  things 
with  frivolous  indifference,  and  Tom  must  not  accuse  her  of 
that.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  grave,  earnest  gaze,  and 
said  — 

"  I  can't  make  you  think  better  of  me,  Tom,  by  anything  I 
can  say.  But  I  am  not  so  shut  out  from  all  your  feelings  as  you 
believe  me  to  be.  I  see  as  well  as  you  do,  that  from  our  posi- 
tion with  regard  to  Philip's  father  —  not  on  other  grounds  — 
it  would  be  unreasonable  —  it  Avould  be  wrong  for  us  to  enter- 
tain the  idea  of  marriage  ;  and  I  have  given  up  thinking  of 
him  as  a  lover.  ...  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  and  you  have 
no  right  to  disbelieve  me :  I  have  kept  my  word  to  you,  and 
you  have  never  detected  me  in  a  falsehood.  I  should  not  only 
not  encourage,  I  should  carefully  avoid,  any  intercourse  with 
Philip  on  any  other  footing  than  that  of  quiet  friendship.  You 
may  think  that  I  am  unable  to  keep  my  resolutions  ;  but  at  least 
you  ought  not  to  treat  me  with  hard  contempt  on  the  ground 
of  faults  that  I  have  not  committed  yet." 

"  Well,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  softening  under  this  appeal,  "  I 
don't  want  to  overstrain  matters.  I  think,  all  things  con- 
sidered, it  will  be  best  for  you  to  see  Philip  Wakem,  if  Lucy 
wishes  him  to  come  to  the  house.  I  believe  what  you  say  — 
at  least  you  believe  it  yourself,  I  know :  I  can  only  warn  you. 
I  wish  to  be  as  good  a  brother  to  you  as  you  will  let  me." 

There  was  a  little  tremor  in  Tom's  voice  as  he  uttered  the 
last  words,  and  Maggie's  ready  affection  came  back  with  as 
sudden  a  glow  as  when  they  were  children,  and  bit  their  cako 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  419 

together  as  a  sacraineut  of  conciliation.     She  rose  and  laid  hei 
hand  on  Tom's  shoulder. 

"  Dear  Tom,  I  know  you  mean  to  be  good.  I  know  you  have 
had  a  great  deal  to  bear,  and  have  done  a  great  deal.  I  sliuuld 
like  to  be  a  comfort  to  you  —  not  to  vex  you.  You  don't  tliink 
I  'm  altogether  naughty,  now,  do  you  ?  " 

Tom  smiled  at  the  eager  face  :  his  smiles  were  very  pleasant 
to  see  when  they  did  come,  for  the  gray  eyes  could  be  tender 
underneath  the  frown. 

"  No,  Maggie." 

"  I  may  turn  out  better  than  you  expect." 

"  I  hope  you  will." 

"  And  may  I  come  some  day  and  make  tea  for  you,  and  see 
this  extremely  small  wife  of  Bob's  again  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  trot  away  now,  for  I  've  no  more  time  to  spare," 
said  Tom,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  Not  to  give  me  a  kiss  ?  " 

Tom  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek,  and  then  said  — 

"  There  !  Be  a  good  girl.  I  've  got  a  great  deal  to  think  of 
to-day.  I  'm  going  to  have  a  long  consultation  with  my  uncle 
Deane  this  afternoon." 

"  You  '11  come  to  aunt  Glegg's  to-morrow  ?  We  're  going  all 
to  dine  early,  that  we  may  go  there  to  tea.  You  must  come ; 
Lucy  told  me  to  say  so." 

"  Oh  pooh  !  I  've  plenty  else  to  do,"  said  Tom,  pulling  his 
bell  violently,  and  bringing  down  the  small  bell-rope. 

"  I  'm  frightened  —  I  shall  run  away,"  said  Maggie,  making 
a  laughing  retreat;  while  Tom,  with  masculine  philosophy, 
flung  the  bell-rope  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room  —  not  very 
far  either  :  a  touch  of  human  experience  which  I  flatter  myself 
will  come  home  to  the  bosoms  of  not  a  few  substantial  or  dis- 
tinguished men  who  were  once  at  an  early  stage  of  their  rise 
in  the  world,  and  were  cherishing  very  large  hopes  in  very 
small  lodgings. 


120  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SHOWING   THAT   TOM    HAD    OPENED    THE    OYSTER. 

"And  now  we've  settled  this  Newcastle  business,  Tom," 
said  Mr.  Deane,  that  same  afternoon,  as  they  were  seated  in 
the  private  room  at  the  Bank  together,  "  there  's  another  mat- 
ter I  want  to  talk  to  you  about.  Since  you  're  likelj^  to  have 
rather  a  smoky,  unpleasant  time  of  it  at  Newcastle  for  the 
next  few  weeks,  you  '11  want  a  good  prospect  of  some  sort  to 
keep  up  your  spirits." 

Tom  waited  less  nervously  than  he  had  done  on  a  former 
occasion  in  this  apartment,  while  his  uncle  took  out  his  snuff- 
box and  gratified  each  nostril  with  deliberate  impartiality. 

"You  see,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  at  last,  throwing  himself 
backward,  "  the  world  goes  on  at  a  smarter  pace  now  than  it 
did  when  I  was  a  young  fellow.  Why,  sir,  forty  years  ago, 
when  I  was  much  such  a  strapping  youngster  as  you,  a  man 
expected  to  pull  between  the  shafts  the  best  part  of  his  life, 
before  he  got  the  whip  in  his  hand.  The  looms  went  slowish, 
and  fashions  did  n't  alter  quite  so  fast :  I  'd  a  best  suit  that 
lasted  me  six  years.  Everything  was  on  a  lower  scale,  sir  — 
in  point  of  expenditure,  I  mean.  It 's  this  steam,  you  see, 
that  has  made  the  difference  :  it  drives  on  every  wheel  double 
pace,  and  the  wheel  of  fortune  along  with  'em,  as  our  Mr.  Ste- 
phen Guest  said  at  the  anniversary  dinner  (lie  hits  these  things 
off  wonderfully,  considering  he  's  seen  nothing  of  business).  I 
don't  find  fault  with  the  change,  as  some  people  do.  Trade, 
sir,  opens  a  man's  eyes  ;  and  if  the  population  is  to  get  thicker 
upon  the  ground,  as  it 's  doing,  the  world  must  use  its  wits  at 
inventions  of  one  sort  or  other.  I  know  I  've  done  my  share 
as  an  ordinary  man  of  business.  Somebody  has  said  it 's  a  fine 
thing  to  make  two  ears  of  corn  grow  where  onl}^  one  grew  be- 
fore ;  but,  sir,  it 's  a  fine  thing,  too,  to  further  the  exchange  of 
commodities,  and  bring  the  grains  of  corn  to  the  mouths  that 
are  hungry.     And  that 's  our  line  of  business  ;  and  I  consider 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  421 

it  as  honorable  a  position  as  a  man  can  hold,  to  be  comiected 
with  it." 

Tom  knew  that  the  affair  his  uncle  had  to  speak  of  was  not 
urgent;  Mr.  Deane  was  too  shrewd  and  practical  a  m:ui  to 
allow  either  his  reminiscences  or  his  snuff  to  impede  the  prog- 
ress of  trade.  Indeed,  for  the  last  month  or  two,  there  had 
been  hints  thrown  out  to  Tom  which  enabled  him  to  guess 
that  he  was  going  to  hear  some  proposition  for  his  own 
benefit.  With  the  beginning  of  the  last  speech  he  had 
stretched  out  his  legs,  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
prepared  himself  for  some  introductory  diffuseness,  tending 
to  show  that  Mr.  Deane  had  succeeded  by  his  own  merit,  and 
that  what  he  had  to  say  to  young  men  in  general  was,  that  if 
they  did  n't  succeed  too,  it  was  because  of  their  own  demerit. 
He  was  rather  surprised,  then,  when  his  uncle  put  a  direct 
question  to  him. 

"  Let  me  see  —  it 's  going  on  for  seven  years  now  since  you 
applied  to  me  for  a  situation  —  eh,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  'm  three-and-twenty  now,"  said  Tom. 

"  Ah  —  it 's  as  well  not  to  say  that,  though  :  for  you  'd 
pass  for  a  good  deal  older,  and  age  tells  well  in  business.  I 
remember  jonr  coming  very  well :  I  remember  I  saw  there 
was  some  pluck  in  you,  and  that  was  what  made  me  give  yorf 
encouragement.  And  I  'm  happy  to  say,  I  was  right  —  I'va 
not  often  deceived.  I  was  naturally  a  little  shy  at  pushing 
my  nephew,  but  I  'm  happy  to  say  you  've  done  me  credit,  sir; 
and  if  I  'd  had  a  son  o'  my  own,  I  should  n't  have  been  sorrj 
to  see  him  like  you." 

Mr.  Deane  tapped  his  box  and  opened  it  again,  repeating  in 
a  tone  of  some  feeling  —  "  No,  I  should  n't  have  been  sorry  to 
see  him  like  you." 

"  I  'm  very  glad  I  've  given  you  satisfaction,  sir ;  I  've  don» 
my  best,"  said  Tom,  in  his  proud,  independent  way. 

"  Yes,  Tom,  you  've  given  me  satisfaction.  I  don't  speak 
of  your  conduct  as  a  son  ;  though  that  weighs  with  me  in  my 
opinion  of  you.  But  what  I  have  to  do  with,  as  a  partner  in 
our  firm,  is  the  qualities  you  've  shown  as  a  man  o'  business. 
Ours  is  a  fine  business  —  a  splendid  concern,  sir  —  and  there's 


422  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

no  reason  why  it  should  n't  go  on  growing  ;  there  's  a  growing 
capital,  and  growing  outlets  for  it ;  but  there  's  another  thing 
that 's  wanted  for  the  prosperity  of  every  concern,  large  or 
small,  and  that's  men  to  conduct  it  —  men  of  the  right  habits  ; 
none  o'  your  flashy  fellows,  but  such  as  are  to  be  depended 
on.  Now  this  is  what  ]\Ir.  Guest  and  I  see  clear  enough. 
Three  years  ago,  we  took  Gell  into  the  concern :  we  gave  him 
a  share  in  the  oil-mill.  And  why  ?  Why,  because  Gell  was 
a  fellow  whose  services  were  worth  a  premium.  So  it  will 
always  be,  sir.  So  it  was  with  me.  And  though  Gell  is 
pretty  near  ten  years  older  than  you,  there  are  other  points  in 
your  favor." 

Tom  was  getting  a  little  nervous  as  Mr.  Deane  went  on 
speaking :  he  was  conscious  of  something  he  had  in  his  mind 
to  say,  which  might  not  be  agreeable  to  his  uncle,  simply 
because  it  was  a  new  suggestion  rather  than  an  acceptance  of 
the  proposition  he  foresaw. 

"It  stands  to  reason,"  Mr.  Deane  went  on,  when  he  had 
finished  his  new  pinch,  "  that  your  being  my  nephew  weighs 
in  your  favor  ;  but  I  don't  deny  that  if  you  'd  been  no  relation 
of  mine  at  all,  yoar  conduct  in  that  affair  of  Pelley's  bank 
would  have  led  Mr.  Guest  and  myself  to  make  some  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  service  you  've  been  to  us ;  and,  backed  by 
your  general  conduct  and  business  ability,  it  has  made  us 
determine  on  giving  you  a  share  in  the  business  —  a  share, 
which  we  shall  be  glad  to  increase  as  the  years  go  on.  We 
think  that  '11  be  better,  on  all  grounds,  than  raising  your 
salary.  It'll  give  you  more  importance,  and  prepare  you 
better  for  taking  some  of  the  anxiety  off  my  shoulders  by -and- 
by.  I  'm  equal  to  a  good  deal  o'  work  at  present,  thank  God ; 
but  I  'm  getting  older  —  there  's  no  denying  that.  I  told  Mr. 
Guest  I  would  open  the  subject  to  you ;  and  when  you  come 
back  from  this  northern  business,  we  can  go  into  particulars, 
This  is  a  great  stride  for  a  young  fellow  of  three-and-twenty, 
but  I  'm  bound  to  say  you  've  deserved  it." 

"  I  'm  very  grateful  to  Mr.  Guest  and  you,  sir  ;  of  course  I 
feel  the  most  indebted  to  you,  who  first  took  me  into  the  busi- 
ness, and  have  taken  a  good  deal  of  pains  with  me  since." 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATrON.  428 

Tom  spoke  with  a  slight  tremor,  and  paused  after  he  had 
said  this. 

"  Yes,  yes/'  said  Mr.  Deane.  '•'  I  don't  spare  pains  when 
I  see  they  '11  be  of  any  use.  I  gave  myself  some  trouble  with 
Gell  —  else  he  would  n't  have  been  what  he  is." 

'•  But  there  's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  mention  to  you, 
uncle.  I  've  never  spoken  to  you  of  it  before.  If  you  remem- 
ber, at  the  time  my  father's  property  was  sold,  there  was  some 
thought  of  your  firm  buying  the  Mill :  I  know  you  thought 
it  would  be  a  very  good  investment,  especially  if  steam  were 
applied." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  But  Wakem  outbid  us  —  he  'd 
made  up  his  mind  to  that.  He 's  rather  fond  of  carrying 
everything  over  other  people's  heads." 

"  Perhaps  it 's  of  no  use  my  mentioning  it  at  present,"  Tom 
went  on,  "  but  I  wish  you  to  know  what  I  have  in  my  mind 
about  the  Mill.  I  've  a  strong  feeling  about  it.  It  was  my 
father's  dying  wish  that  I  should  try  and  get  it  back  again 
whenever  I  could :  it  was  in  his  family  for  five  generations. 
I  promised  my  father ;  and  besides  that,  I  'm  attached  to  the 
place.  I  shall  never  like  any  other  so  well.  And  if  it  should 
ever  suit  your  views  to  buy  it  for  the  firm,  I  should  have  a 
better  chance  of  fulfilling  my  father's  wish.  I  shouldn't  have, 
liked  to  mention  the  thing  to  you,  only  you  've  been  kind 
enough  to  say  my  services  have  been  of  some  value.  And 
I  'd  give  up  a  much  greater  chance  in  life  for  the  sake  of 
having  the  Mill  again  —  I  mean,  having  it  in  my  own  hands, 
and  gradually  working  off  the  price." 

Mr.  Deane  had  listened  attentively,  and  now  looked 
thoughtful. 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  he  said,  after  a  while  ;  "  the  thing  would  be 
possible,  if  there  were  any  chance  of  Wakem's  parting  with 
the  property.  But  that  I  dont  see.  He  's  ])ut  that  young 
Jetsome  in  the  place ;  and  he  had  his  reasons  when  he  bought 
it,  I  '11  be  bound;' 

"He  's  a  loose  fish,  that  young  Jetsome,"  said  Tom.  " He 's 
taking  to  drinking,  and  they  say  he  's  letting  the  business  go 
down.     Luke  told  me  about  it  —  our  old  miller.     He  says,  he 


424  THE  MILL   ON  THE   FLOSS. 

shan't  stay  unless  there  's  an  alteration.  I  was  thinking,  if 
things  went  on  in  that  way,  Wakem  might  be  more  willing  to 
part  with  the  Mill.  Luke  says  he  's  getting  very  sour  about 
the  way  things  are  going  on." 

"  Well,  I  '11  turn  it  over,  Tom.  I  must  inquire  into  the  mat- 
ter, and  go  into  it  with  Mr.  Guest.  But,  you  see,  it 's  rather 
striking  out  a  new  branch,  and  putting  you  to  that,  instead  of 
keeping  you  where  you  are,  which  was  what  we  'd  wanted." 

"I  should  be  able  to  manage  more  than  the  Mill  when  things 
were  once  set  properly  going,  sir.  I  want  to  have  plenty  of 
work.     There's  nothing  else  I  care  about  much." 

There  was  something  rather  sad  in  that  speech  from  a  young 
man  of  three-and-twenty,  even  in  uncle  Deane's  business-loving 
ears. 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  you  '11  be  having  a  wife  to  care  about  one  of 
these  days,  if  you  get  on  at  this  pace  in  the  world.  But  as  to 
this  Mill,  we  mustn't  reckon  on  our  chickens  too  early.  How- 
ever, I  promise  you  to  bear  it  in  mind,  and  when  you  come  back 
we  '11  talk  of  it  again.  I  am  going  to  dinner  now.  Come  and 
breakfast  with  us  to-morrow  morning,  and  say  good-by  to  your 
mother  and  sister  before  you  start.'* 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ILLUSTRATING   THE   LAWS    OF   ATTRACTION. 

It  is  evident  to  you  now,  that  Maggie  had  arrivea  at  a  mo- 
ment in  her  life  which  must  be  considered  by  all  prudent  per- 
sons as  a  great  opportunity  for  a  young  woman.  Launched 
into  the  higher  society  of  St.  Ogg's,  with  a  striking  person, 
which  had  the  advantage  of  being  quite  unfamiliar  to  the  ma- 
jority of  beholders,  and  with  such  moderate  assistance  of  cos- 
tume as  you  have  seen  foreshadowed  in  Lucy's  anxious  colloquy 
with  aunt  Pullet,  Maggie  was  certainly  at  a  new  starting- 
point  in  life.  At  Lucy's  first  evening-party,  young  Torry  fa- 
tigued his  facial  muscles  more  than  usual  in  order  that  "  the 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  425 

dark-eyed  girl  there,  in  the  corner,"  might  see  him  in  all  the 
additional  style  conferred  by  his  eye-glass ;  and  several  young 
ladies  went  home  intending  to  have  short  sleeves  with  blaok 
lace,  and  to  plait  their  hair  in  a  broad  coronet  at  the  back  of 
their  head  —  "  That  cousin  of  Miss  Deane's  looked  so  very 
well."  In  fact,  poor  Maggie,  with  all  her  inward  conscious- 
ness of  a  painful  past  and  her  presentiment  of  a  troublous 
future,  was  on  the  way  to  become  an  object  of  some  envy  — 
a  topic  of  discussion  in  the  newly  established  billiard-room, 
and  between  fair  friends  who  had  no  secrets  from  each  other 
on  the  subject  of  trimmings.  The  Miss  Guests,  who  asso- 
ciated chiefly  on  terms  of  condescension  with  the  families  of 
St.  Ogg's,  and  were  the  glass  of  fashion  there,  took  some  ex- 
ception to  Maggie's  manners.  She  had  a  way  of  not  assenting 
at  once  to  the  observations  current  in  good  society,  and  of 
saying  that  she  did  n't  know  whether  those  observations  were 
true  or  not,  which  gave  her  an  air  of  gaucherie,  and  impeded 
the  even  flow  of  conversation ;  but  it  is  a  fact  capable  of  an 
amiable  interpretation,  that  ladies  are  not  the  worst  disposed 
towards  a  new  acquaintance  of  their  own  sex  because  she  has 
points  of  inferiority.  And  Maggie  was  so  entirely  without 
those  pretty  airs  of  coquetry  which  have  the  traditional  repu- 
tation of  driving  gentlemen  to  despair,  that  she  won  some 
feminine  pity  for  being  so  ineffective  in  spite  of  her  beauty. 
She  had  not  had  many  advantages,  poor  thing !  and  it  must 
be  admitted  there  was  no  pretension  about  her :  her  abrupt- 
ness and  unevenness  of  manner  were  plainly  the  result  of 
her  secluded  and  lowly  circumstances.  It  was  only  a  Avon- 
der  that  there  was  no  tinge  of  vulgarity  about  her,  consider- 
ing what  the  rest  of  poor  Lucy's  relations  were :  an  allusion 
which  always  made  the  Miss  Guests  shudder  a  little.  It  was 
not  agreeable  to  think  of  any  connection  by  marriage  with 
such  people  as  the  Gleggs  and  the  Pullets ;  but  it  was  of  no 
use  to  contradict  Stephen,  when  once  he  had  set  his  mind  on 
anything,  and  certainly  there  was  no  possible  objection  to  Lucy 
in  herself — no  one  could  help  liking  her.  She  would  naturally 
desire  that  the  Miss  Guests  should  behave  kindly  to  this  cousin 
of  whom  she  was  so  fond,  and  Stephen  would  make  a  great 


426  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

fuss  if  they  were  deficient  in  civility.  Under  these  circum- 
stances the  invitations  to  Park  House  were  not  wanting ;  and 
elsewhere,  also,  Miss  Deane  was  too  popular  and  too  distin- 
guished a  member  of  society  in  St.  Ogg's  for  any  attention 
towards  her  to  be  neglected. 

Thus  Maggie  was  introduced  for  the  first  time  to  the  young 
lady's  life,  and  knew  what  it  was  to  get  up  in  the  morning 
without  any  imperative  reason  for  doing  one  thing  more  than 
another.  This  new  sense  of  leisure  and  unchecked  enjoyment 
amidst  the  soft-breathing  airs  and  garden-scents  of  advancing 
spring  —  amidst  the  new  abundance  of  music,  and  lingering 
strolls  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  delicious  dreaminess  of  glid- 
ing on  the  river  —  could  hardly  be  without  some  intoxicating 
effect  on  her,  after  her  years  of  privation ;  and  even  in  the 
first  week  Maggie  began  to  be  less  haunted  by  her  sad  memo- 
ries and  anticipations.  Life  was  certainly  very  pleasant  just 
now :  it  was  becoming  very  pleasant  to  dress  in  the  evening, 
"ind  to  feel  that  she  was  one  of  the  beautiful  things  of  this 
spring-time.  And  there  were  admiring  eyes  always  awaiting 
her  now ;  she  was  no  longer  an  unheeded  person,  liable  to  be 
chid,  from  whom  attention  was  continually  claimed,  and  on 
whom  no  one  felt  bound  to  confer  any.  It  was  pleasant,  too, 
when  Stephen  and  Lucy  were  gone  out  riding,  to  sit  down  at 
the  piano  alone,  and  find  that  the  old  fitness  between  her  fin- 
gers and  the  keys  remained,  and  revived,  like  a  sympathetic 
kinship  not  to  be  worn  out  by  separation  —  to  get  the  tunes 
she  had  heard  the  evening  before,  and  repeat  them  again  and 
again  until  she  had  found  out  a  way  of  producing  them  so  as  to 
make  them  a  more  pregnant,  passionate  language  to  her.  The 
mere  concord  of  octaves  was  a  delight  to  Maggie,  and  she 
would  often  take  up  a  book  of  studies  rather  than  any  melody, 
that  she  might  taste  more  keenly  by  abstraction  the  more 
primitive  sensation  of  intervals.  Not  that  her  enjoyment  of 
music  was  of  the  kind  that  indicates  a  great  specific  talent ;  it 
was  rather  that  her  sensibility  to  the  supreme  excitement  of 
music  was  only  one  form  of  that  passionate  sensibility  which 
belonged  to  her  whole  nature,  and  made  her  faults  and  virtues 
all  merge  in  each  other  —  iLade  her  affections  sometimes  an 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  4zi 

impatient  demand,  but  also  prevented  her  vanity  from  taking 
the  form  of  mere  feminine  coquetry  and  device,  and  gave  it 
the  poetry  of  ambition.  But  you  have  known  Maggie  a  long 
while,  and  need  to  be  told,  not  her  characteristics,  but  lier  his- 
tory,  which  is  a  thing  hardly  to  be  predicted  even  from  the 
completest  knowledge  of  characteristics.  For  the  tragedy 
of  our  lives  is  not  created  entirely  from  within.  <'  Character  " 
says  Novalis,  in  one  of  his  questionable  aphorisms  —  "cliarac- 
ter  is  destiny."  But  not  the  whole  of  our  destiny.  Hamlet, 
Prince  of  Denmark,  was  speculative  and  irresolute,  and  we 
have  a  great  tragedy  in  consequence.  But  if  his  father  had 
lived  to  a  good  old  age,  and  his  uncle  had  died  an  early  death, 
we  can  conceive  Hamlet's  having  married  Ophelia,  and  got 
through  life  with  a  reputation  of  sanity,  notwithstanding  many 
soliloquies,  and  some  moody  sarcasms  towards  the  fair  daugh- 
ter of  Polonius,  to  say  nothing  of  the  frankest  incivility  to 
his  father-in-law. 

Maggie's  destiny,  then,  is  at  present  hidden,  and  we  must 
wait  for  it  to  reveal  itself  like  the  course  of  an  unmapped 
river :  we  only  know  that  the  river  is  full  and  rapid,  and  that 
for  all  rivers  there  is  the  same  final  home.  Under  the  charm 
of  her  new  pleasures,  Maggie  herself  was  ceasing  to  think, 
with  her  eager  prefiguring  imagination,  of  her  future  lot ;  and 
her  anxiety  about  her  first  interview  with  Philip  was  losing 
its  predominance :  perhaps,  unconsciously  to  herself,  she  wae 
not  sorry  that  the  interview  had  been  deferred. 

Por  Philip  had  not  come  the  evening  he  was  expected,  and 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest  brought  word  that  he  was  gone  to  the 
coast  —  probably,  he  thought,  on  a  sketching  expedition ;  but 
it  was  not  certain  when  he  would  return.  It  was  just  like 
Philip  —  to  go  off  in  that  way  without  telling  any  one.  It 
was  not  until  the  twelfth  day  that  he  returned,  to  find  both 
Lucy's  notes  awaiting  him:  he  had  left  before  he  knew  of 
Maggie's  arrival. 

Perhaps  one  had  need  be  nineteen  again  to  be  quite  con- 
vinced of  the  feelings  that  were  crowded  for  Maggie  into  those 
twelve  days  —  of  the  length  to  which  they  were  stretched  for 
her  by  the  novelty  of  her  experience  in  them,  and  the  varying 


428  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

attitudes  of  her  mind.  The  early  days  of  an  acquaintance  al- 
most always  have  this  importance  for  us,  and  fill  up  a  larger 
space  in  our  memory  than  longer  subsequent  periods,  which 
have  been  less  filled  with  discovery  and  new  impressions. 
There  were  not  many  hours  in  those  ten  days  in  which  Mr. 
Stephen  Guest  was  not  seated  by  Lucy's  side,  or  standing  near 
her  at  the  piano,  or  accompanying  her  on  some  outdoor  excur- 
sion .  his  attentions  were  clearly  becoming  more  assiduous ; 
and  that  was  what  every  one  had  expected.  Lucy  was  very 
happy  .  all  the  happier  because  Stephen's  society  seemed  to 
have  become  much  more  interesting  and  amusing  since  Maggie 
had  been  there.  Playful  discussions  —  sometimes  serious  ones 
—  were  going  forward,  in  which  both  Stephen  and  Maggie  re- 
vealed themselves,  to  the  admiration  of  the  gentle  unobtrusive 
Lucy  ;  and  it  more  than  once  crossed  her  mind  what  a  charm- 
ing quartet  they  should  have  through  life  when  Maggie  mar- 
ried Philip.  Is  it  an  inexplicable  thing  that  a  girl  should 
enjoy  her  lover's  society  the  more  for  the  presence  of  a  third 
person,  and  be  without  the  slightest  spasm  of  jealousy  that 
the  third  person  had  the  conversation  habitually  directed  to 
her  ?  Not  when  that  girl  is  as  ti-anquil-hearted  as  Lucy,  thor- 
oughly possessed  with  a  belief  that  she  knows  the  state  of  her 
companions'  affections,  and  not  prone  to  the  feelings  which 
shake  such  a  belief  in  the  absence  of  positive  evidence  against 
it.  Besides,  it  was  Lucy  by  whom  Stephen  sat,  to  whom  he 
gave  his  arm,  to  whom  he  appealed  as  the  person  sure  to  agree 
with  him  ;  and  every  day  there  was  the  same  tender  politeness 
towards  her,  the  same  consciousness  of  her  wants  and  care 
to  supply  them.  Was  there  really  the  same  ?  —  it  seemed  to 
Lucy  that  there  was  more  ;  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  the 
real  significance  of  the  change  escaped  her.  It  was  a  subtle 
act  of  conscience  in  Stephen  that  even  he  himself  was  not 
aware  of.  His  personal  attentions  to  Maggie  were  compara- 
tively slight,  and  there  had  even  sprung  up  an  apparent  dis- 
tance between  them,  that  prevented  the  renewal  of  that  faint 
resemblance  to  gallantry  into  which  he  had  fallen  the  first  day 
in  the  boat.  If  Stephen  came  in  when  Lucy  was  out  of  the 
room  —  if  Lucy  left  them  together,  they  never  spoke  to  each 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  429 

other:  Stephen,  perhaps,  seemed  to  be  examining  books  on 
music,  and  Maggie  bent  her  head  assiduously  over  her  work. 
Each  was  oppressively  conscious  of  the  other's  presence,  even 
to  the  finger-ends.  Yet  each  looked  and  longed  for  the  same 
thing  to  happen  the  next  day.  Neither  of  them  had  begun  to 
reflect  on  the  matter,  or  silently  to  ask,  "  To  what  does  all 
this  tend  ?  "  Maggie  only  felt  that  life  was  revealing  some- 
thing quite  new  to  her ;  and  she  was  absorbed  in  the  direct, 
immediate  experience,  without  any  energy  left  for  taking  ac- 
count of  it  and  reasoning  about  it.  Stephen  wilfully  abstained 
from  self-questioning,  and  would  not  admit  to  himself  that  he 
felt  an  influence  which  was  to  have  any  determining  effect  on 
his  conduct.  And  when  Lucy  came  into  the  room  again,  they 
were  once  more  unconstrained:  Maggie  could  contradict  Ste- 
phen, and  laugh  at  him,  and  he  could  recommend  to  her  con- 
sideration the  example  of  that  most  charming  heroine.  Miss 
Sophia  Western,  who  had  a  great  "  respect  for  the  understand- 
ings of  men."  Maggie  could  look  at  Stephen  —  which,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  she  always  avoided  when  they  were 
alone ;  and  he  could  even  ask  her  to  play  his  accompaniment 
for  him,  since  Lucy's  fingers  were  so  busy  with  that  bazaar- 
work  ;  and  lecture  her  on  hurrying  the  tempo,  which  was  cer- 
tainly Maggie's  weak  point. 

One  day  —  it  was  the  day  of  Philip's  return — Lucy  had 
formed  a  sudden  engagement  to  spend  the  evening  with  Mrs. 
Kenn,  whose  delicate  state  of  health,  threatening  to  become 
confirmed  illness  through  an  attack  of  bronchitis,  obliged  her 
to  resign  her  functions  at  the  coming  bazaar  into  the  hands  of 
other  ladies,  of  whom  she  wished  Lucy  to  be  one.  The  en- 
gagement had  been  formed  in  Stephen's  presence,  and  he  had 
heard  Lucy  promise  to  dine  early  and  call  at  six  o'clock  for 
Miss  Torry,  who  brought  Mrs.  Kenn's  request. 

"  Here  is  another  of  the  moral  results  of  this  idiotic  bazaar,  - 
Stephen  burst  forth,  as  soon  as  Miss  Tony  had  left  the  room 
—  "taking  young  ladies  from  the  duties  of  the  domestic  hearth 
into  scenes  of  dissipation  among  urn-rugs  and  embroidered 
reticules !  I  should  like  to  know  what  is  the  proper  function 
of  women,  if  it  is  not  to  make  reasons  for  husbands  to  stay 


430  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

at  home,  and  still  stronger  reasons  for  bachelors  to  go  out. 
If  this  goes  on  much  longer,  the  bonds  of  society  will  be 
dissolved." 

"  "Well,  it  will  not  go  on  much  longer,"  said  Lucy,  laughing, 
"  for  the  bazaar  is  to  take  place  on  Monday  week." 

"  Thank  heaven  !  "  said  Stephen.  "  Kenn  himself  said  the 
other  day  that  he  did  n't  like  this  plan  of  making  vanity  do 
the  work  of  charity  ;  but  just  as  the  British  public  is  not  rea- 
sonable enough  to  bear  direct  taxation,  so  St.  Ogg's  has  not 
got  force  of  motive  enough  to  build  and  endow  schools  without 
calling  in  the  force  of  folly." 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  "  said  little  Lucy,  her  hazel  eyes  opening 
wide  with  anxiety.  "  I  never  heard  him  say  anything  of  that 
kind :  I  thought  he  approved  of  what  we  were  doing." 

"  I  'm  sure  he  approves  you,''  said  Stephen,  smiling  at  her 
affectionately ;  "  your  conduct  in  going  out  to-night  looks 
vicious,  I  own,  but  I  know  there  is  benevolence  at  the  bottom 
of  it." 

'^Oh,  you  think  too  well  of  me,"  said  Lucy,  shaking  her 
head,  with  a  pretty  blush,  and  there  the  subject  ended.  But 
it  was  tacitly  understood  that  Stephen  would  not  como  in  the 
evening,  and  on  the  strength  of  that  tacit  understanding  he 
made  his  morning  visit  the  longer,  not  saying  good-by  until 
after  four. 

Maggie  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room  alone,  shortly  after 
dinner,  with  Minny  on  her  lap,  having  left  her  uncle  to  his 
wine  and  his  nap,  and  her  mother  to  the  compromise  between 
knitting  and  nodding,  which,  when  there  was  no  company,  she 
always  carried  on  in  the  dining-room  till  tea-time.  Maggie 
was  stooping  to  caress  the  tiny  silken  pet,  and  comforting  him 
for  his  mistress's  absence,  when  the  sound  of  a  footstep  on  the 
gravel  made  her  look  up,  and  she  saw  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  walk- 
ing up  the  garden,  as  if  he  had  come  straight  from  the  river. 
It  was  very  unusual  to  see  him  so  soon  after  dinner!  He 
often  complained  that  their  dinner-hour  was  late  at  Park 
House.  Nevertheless,  there  he  was,  in  his  black  dress  :  he 
had  evidently  been  home,  and  must  have  come  again  by  the 
river.     Maggie  felt  her  cheeks  glowing  and  her  heart  beating : 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  431 

it  was  natural  she  sliould  be  nervous,  for  she  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  receive  visitors  alone.  He  liad  seen  her  look  up 
through  the  open  window,  and  raised  his  hat  as  he  walked 
towards  it,  to  enter  that  way  instead  of  by  the  door.  He 
blushed  too,  and  certainly  looked  as  foolish  as  a  young  man 
of  some  wit  and  self-possession  can  be  expected  to  look,  as  he 
walked  in  with  a  roll  of  music  in  his  hand,  and  said,  with  an 
air  of  hesitating  improvisation  — 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me  again,  MissTulliver  —  I  ought 
to  apologize  for  coming  upon  you  by  surprise,  but  I  wanted  to 
come  into  the  town,  and  I  got  our  man  to  row  me  ;  so  I  thought 
I  would  bring  these  things  from  the  '  Maid  of  Artois '  for  your 
cousin :  I  forgot  them  this  morning.  Will  you  give  them  to 
her  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  who  had  risen  confusedly  with  Minny 
in  her  arms,  and  now,  not  quite  knowing  what  else  to  do,  sat 
down  again. 

Stephen  laid  down  his  hat,  with  the  music,  which  rolled  on 
the  floor,  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  close  by  her.  He  had 
never  done  so  before,  and  both  he  and  Maggie  were  quite 
aware  that  it  was  an  entirely  new  position. 

"Well,  you  pampered  minion!"  said  Stephen,  leaning  to 
pull  the  long  curly  ears  that  drooped  over  Maggie's  arm.  It 
was  not  a  suggestive  remark,  and  as  the  speaker  did  not  follow 
it  up  by  further  development,  it  naturally  left  the  conversation 
at  a  stand-still.  It  seemed  to  Stephen  like  some  action  in  a 
dream,  that  he  was  obliged  to  do,  and  wonder  at  himself  all 
the  while  —  to  go  on  stroking  Minny's  head.  Yet  it  was  very 
pleasant :  he  only  wished  he  dared  look  at  Maggie,  and  that 
she  would  look  at  him  —  let  him  have  one  long  look  into  those 
deep  strange  eyes  of  hers,  and  then  he  would  be  satisfied,  and 
quite  reasonable  after  that.  He  thought  it  was  becoming  a 
sort  of  monomania  with  him,  to  want  that  long  look  from 
Maggie ;  and  he  was  racking  his  invention  continually  to  find 
out  some  means  by  which  he  could  have  it  without  its  appear- 
ing singular  and  entailing  subsequent  embarrassment.  As  for 
Maggie,  she  had  no  distinct  thought  —  only  the  sense  of  a 
presence  like  that  of  a  closely  hovering  broad-winged  bird  in 


432  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

the  darkness,  for  she  was  unable  to  look  up,  and  saw  nothing 
but  Minny's  black  wavy  coat. 

But  this  must  end  some  time  —  perhaps  it  ended  very  soon, 
and  only  seemed  long,  as  a  minute's  dream  does,  Stephen  at 
last  sat  upright  sideways  in  his  chair,  leaning  one  hand  and 
arm  over  the  back  and  looking  at  Maggie.  What  should  he 
say? 

"  We  shall  have  a  splendid  sunset,  I  think ;  shan't  you  go 
out  and  see  it  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie.  Then,  courageously  raising 
her  eyes  and  looking  out  of  the  window,  *'  If  I  'm  not  playing 
cribbage  with  my  uncle." 

A  pause :  during  which  Minny  is  stroked  again,  but  has  suf- 
ficient insight  not  to  be  grateful  for  it  —  to  growl  rather. 

"  Do  you  like  sitting  alone  ?  " 

A  rather  arch  look  came  over  Maggie's  face,  and,  just  glanc- 
ing at  Stephen,  she  said,  ''  Would  it  be  quite  civil  to  say 
*  yes ' ? " 

"  It  was  rather  a  dangerous  question  for  an  intruder  to  ask," 
said  Stephen,  delighted  with  that  glance,  and  getting  deter- 
mined to  stay  for  another.  "But  you  will  have  more  than 
half  an  hour  to  yourself  after  I  am  gone,"  he  added,  taking 
out  his  watch.  "  I  know  Mr.  Deane  never  comes  in  till  half- 
past  seven." 

Another  pause,  during  which  Maggie  looked  steadily  out  of 
the  window,  till  by  a  great  effort  she  moved  her  head  to  look 
down  at  Minny's  back  again,  and  said  — ■ 

"  I  wish  Lucy  had  not  been  obliged  to  go  out.  We  lose  our 
music." 

"  We  shall  have  a  new  voice  to-morrow  night,"  said  Stephen. 
"  Will  you  tell  your  cousin  that  our  friend  Philip  Wakem  is 
come  back  ?     I  saw  him  as  I  went  home." 

Maggie  gave  a  little  start  —  it  seemed  hardly  more  than  a 
vibration  that  passed  from  head  to  foot  in  an  instant.  But 
the  new  images  summoned  by  Philip's  name  dispersed  half 
the  oppressive  spell  she  had  been  under.  She  rose  from  her 
chair  with  a  sudden  resolution,  and,  laying  Minny  on  his 
cushion,  went   to   reach   Lucy's   large  work-basket   from   its 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  433 

corner.  Stephen  was  vexed  and  disappointed:  he  thought, 
perhaps  Maggie  did  n't  like  the  name  of  Wakem  to  be  men- 
tioned to  her  in  that  abrupt  way  —  for  he  now  recalled  what 
Lucy  had  told  him  of  the  family  quarrel.  It  was  of  no  use  to 
stay  any  longer.  Maggie  was  seating  herself  at  the  table  with 
her  work,  and  looking  chill  and  proud :  and  he  —  he  looked 
like  a  simpleton  for  having  come.  A  gratuitous,  entirely 
superfluous  visit  of  that  sort  was  sure  to  make  a  man  disagree- 
able and  ridiculous.  Of  course  it  was  jjalpable  to  Maggie's 
thinking,  that  he  had  dined  hastily  in  his  own  room  for  the 
sake  of  setting  off  again  and  finding  her  alone. 

A  boyish  state  of  mind  for  an  accomplished  young  gentleman 
of  five-and-twenty,  not  without  legal  knowledge  !  But  a  refer- 
ence to  history,  perhaps,  may  make  it  not  incredible. 

At  this  moment  Maggie's  ball  of  knitting-wool  rolled  along 
the  ground,  and  she  started  up  to  reach  it.  Stephen  rose  too, 
and,  picking  up  the  ball,  met  her  with  a  vexed  complaining 
look  that  gave  his  eyes  quite  a  new  expression  to  Maggie, 
whose  own  eyes  met  them  as  he  presented  the  ball  to  her. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Stephen,  in  a  tone  that  had  the  same  be- 
seeching discontent  as  his  eyes.  He  dared  not  put  out  his 
hand  —  he  thrust  both  hands  into  his  tail-pockets  as  he  spoke, 
Maggie  thought  she  had  perhaps  been  rude. 

"  Won't  you  stay  ?  "  she  said  timidly,  not  looking  away,  for 
that  would  have  seemed  rude  again. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  looking  still  into  the  half- 
unwilling,  half-fascinated  eyes,  as  a  thirsty  man  looks  towards 
the  track  of  the  distant  brook.  "  The  boat  is  waiting  for  me. 
.  .  .  You  '11  tell  your  cousin  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  I  brought  the  music,  I  mean  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  that  Philip  is  come  back  ?  " 

"Yes."     (Maggie  did  not  notice  Philip's  name  this  time.) 

"  Won't  you  come  out  a  little  way  into  the  garden  ?  "  said 
Stephen,  in  a  still  gentler  tone  ;  but  the  next  moment  he  was 
vexed  that  she  did  not  say  "No,"  for  she  moved  away  now  to- 
wards the  open  window,  and  he  was  obliged  to  take  his  hat  and 

VOL.    II.  28 


434  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

walk  by  her  side.  But  be  thought  of  something  to  make 
him  amends. 

"  Do  take  my  arm,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  it  were  a. 
secret. 

There  is  something  strangely  winning  to  most  women  in  that 
offer  of  the  firm  arm :  the  help  is  not  wanted  physically  at 
that  moment,  but  the  sense  of  help  —  the  presence  of  strength 
that  is  outside  them  and  yet  theirs  —  meets  a  continual  want 
of  the  imagination.  Either  on  that  ground  or  some  other, 
Maggie  took  the  arm.  And  they  walked  together  round  the 
grass-plot  and  under  the  drooping  green  of  the  laburnums,  in 
the  same  dim  dreamy  state  as  they  had  been  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before ;  only  that  Stephen  had  had  the  look  he  longed 
for,  without  yet  perceiving  in  himself  the  symptoms  of  return- 
ing reasonableness,  and  Maggie  had  darting  thoughts  across 
the  dimness  :  —  how  came  she  to  be  there  ?  —  why  had  she 
come  out  ?  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  If  it  had  been,  each 
would  have  been  less  intensely  conscious  of  the  other. 

"  Take  care  of  this  step,"  said  Stephen,  at  last. 

"  Oh,  I  will  go  in  now,"  said  Maggie,  feeling  that  the  step 
had  come  like  a  rescue.     "  Good  evening." 

In  an  instant  she  had  withdrawn  her  arm,  and  was  running 
back  to  the  house.  She  did  not  reflect  that  this  sudden  action 
would  only  add  to  the  embarrassing  recollections  of  the  last 
half-hour.  She  had  no  thought  left  for  that.  She  only  threw 
herself  into  the  low  arm-chair,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  Philip,  Philip,  I  wish  we  were  together  again  —  so 
quietly  —  in  the  Red  Deeps." 

Stephen  looked  after  her  a  moment,  then  went  on  to  the 
boat,  and  was  soon  landed  at  the  v/harf.  He  spent  the  evening 
in  the  billiard-room,  smoking  one  cigar  after  another,  and  los- 
ing "  lives  "  at  pool.  But  he  would  not  leave  off.  He  was 
determined  not  to  think  —  not  to  admit  any  more  distinct  re- 
membrance than  was  urged  upon  him  by  the  perpetual  presence 
of  Maggie.     He  was  looking  at  her,  and  she  was  on  his  arm. 

But  there  came  the  necessity  of  walking  home  in  the  cool 
starlight,  and  with  it  the  necessity  of  cursing  his  own  folly, 
and  bitterly  detej-jnining  that  he  would  never  trust  himself 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  435 

alone  with  Maggie  again.  It  was  all  madness :  he  was  iu  love, 
thoroughly  attached  to  Lucy,  and  engaged  —  engaged  as 
strongly  as  an  honorable  man  need  be.  He  wished  he  had  never 
seen  this  Maggie  Tulliver,  to  be  thrown  into  a  fever  by  her 
in  this  way :  she  would  make  a  sweet,  strange,  troublesome, 
adorable  wife  to  some  man  or  other,  but  he  would  never  have 
chosen  her  himself.  Did  she  feel  as  he  did  ?  He  hoped  sho 
did  —  not.  He  ought  not  to  have  gone.  He  would  master 
himself  in  future.  He  would  make  himself  disagreeable  to 
her  —  quarrel  with  her  perhaps.  Quarrel  with  her  ?  Was  it 
possible  to  quarrel  with  a  creature  who  had  such  eyes  —  defy- 
ing and  deprecating,  contradicting  and  clinging,  imperious  and 
beseeching  —  full  of  delicious  opposites.  To  see  such  a  crea- 
ture subdued  by  love  for  one  would  be  a  lot  worth  having  — 
to  another  man. 

There  was  a  muttered  exclamation  which  ended  this  inward 
soliloquy,  as  Stephen  threw  away  the  end  of  his  last  cigar, 
and,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  stalked  along  at 
a  quieter  pace  through  the  shrubbery.  It  was  not  of  a  bene- 
dictory kind. 


CHAPTEE  yn. 

PHILIP    RE-ENTERS. 

The  next  morning  was  very  wet ;  the  sort  of  morning  on 
which  male  neighbors  who  have  no  imperative  occupation  at 
home  are  likely  to  pay  their  fair  friends  an  illimitable  visit. 
The  rain,  which  has  been  endurable  enough  for  the  walk  or 
ride  one  way,  is  sure  to  become  so  heavy,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  certain  to  clear  up  by-and-by,  that  nothing  but  an  open 
quarrel  can  abbreviate  the  visit :  latent  detestation  will  not  do 
at  all.  And  if  people  happen  to  be  lovers,  what  can  be  so  de- 
lightful, in  England,  as  a  rainy  morning  ?  English  ^  sunshine 
is  dubious  ;  bonnets  are  never  quite  secure ;  and  if  you  sit 
down  on  the  grass,  it  may  lead  to  catarrhs.  But  the  rain  is  to 
be  depended  on.     You  gallop  through  it  in  a  mackintosh,  and 


436  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

presently  find  yourself  in  tlie  seat  you  like  best  —  a  little 
above  or  a  little  below  the  one  on  which  your  goddess  sits  (it 
is  the  same  thing  to  the  metaphysical  mind,  and  that  is  the 
reason  why  women  are  at  once  worshipped  and  looked  down 
upon),  with  a  satisfactory  confidence  that  there  will  be  no 
lady-callers. 

"  Stephen  will  come  earlier  this  morning,  I  know,"  said 
Lucy  ;  "  he  always  does  when  it 's  rainy." 

Maggie  made  no  answer.  She  was  angry  with  Stephen : 
she  began  to  think  she  should  dislike  him  ;  and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  rain,  she  would  have  gone  to  her  aunt  Glegg's 
this  morning,  and  so  have  avoided  him  altogether.  As  it  was, 
she  must  find  some  reason  for  remaining  out  of  the  room  with 
her  mother. 

But  Stephen  did  not  come  earlier,  and  there  was  another 
visitor  —  a  nearer  neighbor  —  who  preceded  him.  When 
Philip  entered  the  room,  he  was  going  merely  to  bow  to 
Maggie,  feeling  that  their  acquaintance  was  a  secret  which  he 
was  bound  not  to  betray ;  but  when  she  advanced  towards 
him  and  put  out  her  hand,  he  guessed  at  once  that  Lucy  had 
been  taken  into  her  confidence.  It  was  a  moment  of  some 
agitation  to  both,  though  Philip  had  spent  many  hours  in 
preparing  for  it ;  but  like  all  persons  who  have  passed  through 
life  with  little  expectation  of  sympathy,  he  seldom  lost  his 
self-control,  and  shrank  with  the  most  sensitive  pride  from 
any  noticeable  betrayal  of  emotion.  A  little  extra  paleness, 
a  little  tension  of  the  nostril  when  he  spoke,  and  the  voice 
pitched  in  rather  a  higher  key,  that  to  strangers  would  seem 
expressive  of  cold  indifference,  were  all  the  signs  Philip 
usually  gave  of  an  inward  drama  that  was  not  without  its 
fierceness.  But  Maggie,  who  had  little  more  power  of  con- 
cealing the  impressions  made  upon  her  than  if  she  had  been 
constructed  of  musical  strings,  felt  her  eyes  getting  larger 
with  tears  as  they  took  each  other's  hands  in  silence.  They 
were  not  painful  tears  :  they  had  rather  something  of  the  same 
origin  as  the  tears  women  and  children  shed  when  they  have 
found  some  protection  to  cling  to,  and  look  back  on  the  threat- 
ened danger.     For  Philip,  who  a  little  while  ago  was  asso- 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  437 

dated  continually  in  Maggie's  mind  with  the  sense  that  Tom 
might  reproach  her  with  some  justice,  had  now,  in  this  short 
space,  become  a  sort  of  outward  conscience  to  her,  that  she 
might  fly  to  for  rescue  and  strength.  Her  tranquil,  tender 
affection  for  Philip,  with  its  root  deep  down  in  her  childhood, 
and  its  memories  of  long  quiet  talk  confirming  by  distinct 
successive  impressions  the  first  instinctive  bias  —  the  fact  that 
in  him  the  appeal  was  more  strongly  to  her  pity  and  womanly 
devotedness  than  to  her  vanity  or  other  egoistic  excitability 
of  her  nature,  seemed  now  to  make  a  sort  of  sacred  place,  a 
sanctuary  where  she  could  find  refuge  from  an  alluring  iniluence 
which  the  best  part  of  herself  must  resist,  which  must  bring 
horrible  tumult  within,  wretchedness  without.  This  new 
sense  of  her  relation  to  Philip  nullified  the  anxious  scruples 
she  would  otherwise  have  felt,  lest  she  should  overstep  the 
limit  of  intercourse  with  him  that  Tom  would  sanction  ;  and 
she  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  felt  the  tears  in  her  eyes 
without  any  consciousness  of  ap  inward  check.  The  scene 
was  just  what  Lucy  expected,  aid  her  kind  heart  delighted 
in  bringing  Philip  and  Maggie  together  again ;  though,  even 
with  all  her  regard  for  Philip,  she  could  not  resist  the  impres- 
sion that  her  cousin  Tom  had  some  excuse  for  feeling  shocked 
at  the  physical  incongruity  between  the  two  —  a  prosaic  per- 
son like  cousin  Tom,  who  did  n't  like  poetry  and  fairy  tales. 
But  she  began  to  speak  as  Boon  as  possible,  to  set  them  at 
ease. 

"  This  was  very  good  and  virtuous  of  you,"  she  said,  in  her 
pretty  treble,  like  the  low  conversational  notes  of  little  birds, 
"to  come  so  soon  after  your  arrival.  And  as  it  is,  I  tliink  I 
will  pardon  you  for  running  away  in  an  inopportune  manner, 
and  giving  your  friends  no  notice.  Come  and  sit  down  here," 
she  went  on,  placing  the  chair  that  would  suit  him  best,  "  and 
you  shall  find  yourself  treated  mercifully." 

"  You  will  never  govern  well.  Miss  Deane,"  said  Philip,  as 
he  seated  himself,  "  because  no  one  will  ever  believe  in  your 
severity.  People  will  always  encourage  themselves  in  mis- 
demeanors by  the  certainty  that  you  will  be  indulgent." 

Lucy  gave  some  playful  contradiction,  but  Philip  did  not 


4B8  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

hear  what  it  was,  for  lie  had  naturally  turned  towards  Maggie, 
and  she  was  looking  at  him  with  that  open,  affectionate 
scrutiny  which  we  give  to  a  friend  from  whom  we  have  been 
long  separated.  What  a  moment  their  parting  had  been! 
And  Philip  felt  as  if  he  were  only  in  the  morrow  of  it.  He 
felt  this  so  keenly  —  with  such  intense,  detailed  remembrance 
—  with  such  passionate  revival  of  all  that  had  been  said  and 
looked  in  their  last  conversation  —  that  with  that  jealousy 
and  distrust  which  in  diffident  natures  is  almost  inevitably 
linked  with  a  strong  feeling,  he  thought  he  read  in  Maggie's 
glance  and  manner  the  evidence  of  a  change.  The  very  fact 
that  he  feared  and  half  expected  it,  would  be  sure  to  make 
this  thought  rush  in,  in  the  absence  of  positive  proof  to  the 
contrary. 

"  I  am  having  a  great  holiday,  am  I  not  ?  "  said  Maggie. 
"  Lucy  is  like  a  fairy  godmother :  she  has  turned  me  from  a 
drudge  into  a  princess  in  no  time.  I  do  nothing  but  indulge 
myself  all  day  long,  and  she  always  finds  out  what  I  want 
before  1  know  it  myself." 

"I  am  sure  she  is  the  happier  for  having  you,  then,"  said 
Philip.  ''You  must  be  better  than  a  whole  menagerie  of 
pets  to  her.  And  you  look  well  —  you  are  benefiting  by  the 
change." 

Artificial  conversation  of  this  sort  went  on  a  little  while, 
till  Lucy,  determined  to  put  an  end  to  it,  exclaimed,  with  a 
good  imitation  of  annoyance,  that  she  had  forgotten  some- 
thing, and  was  quickly  out  of  the  room. 

In  a  moment  Maggie  and  Philip  leaned  forward,  and  the 
hands  were  clasped  again,  with  a  look  of  sad  contentment  like 
that  of  friends  who  meet  in  the  memory  of  recent  sorrow. 

"  I  told  my  brother  I  wished  to  see  you,  Philip  —  I  asked 
him  to  release  me  from  my  promise,  and  he  consented." 

Maggie,  in  her  impulsiveness,  wanted  Philip  to  know  at 
once  the  position  they  must  hold  towards  each  other ;  but  she 
checked  herself.  The  things  that  had  happened  since  he  had 
spoken  of  his  love  for  her  were  so  painful  that  she  shrank 
from  beinsr  the  first  to  allude  to  them.  It  seemed  almost  like 
an  injury  towards  Philip  even  to  mention  her  brother  —  her 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  489 

brother  who  had  insulted  him.  But  lie  was  thinking  too 
entirely   of  her   to   be   sensitive  on  any  other  point  at  that 

moment. 

"  Then  we  can  at  least  be  friends,  Maggie  ?  There  is  noth- 
ing to  hinder  that  now  ?  " 

"Will  not  your  father  object?"  said  Maggie,  withdrawing 
her  hand. 

"I  should  not  give  you  up  on  any  ground  but  your  own 
wish,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  coloring.  '^  There  are  points  on 
which  I  should  always  resist  my  father,  as  I  used  to  tell  you. 
That  is  one." 

"Then  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  our  being  friends,  Philip 

—  seeing  each  other  and  talking  to  each  other  while  I  am 
here  :  I  shall  soon  go  away  again.  I  mean  to  go  very  soon  — 
to  a  new  situation." 

"  Is  that  inevitable,  Maggie  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  T  must  not  stay  here  long.  It  would  unfit  me  for 
the  life  I  must  begin  again  at  last.     I  can't  live  in  dependence 

—  I  can't  live  with  my  brother  —  though  he  is  very  good  to 
me.  He  would  like  to  provide  for  me  j  but  that  would  be 
intolerable  to  me." 

Philip  was  silent  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  in  that 
high,  feeble  voice  which  with  him  indicated  the  resolute  sup- 
pression of  emotion  — 

"  Is  there  no  other  alternative,  Maggie  ?  Is  that  life,  away 
from  those  who  love  you,  the  only  one  you  will  allow  yourself 
to  look  forward  to  ?  " 

"Yes,  Philip,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  pleadingly,  as  if  she 
entreated  him  to  believe  that  she  was  compelled  to  this  coarse. 
"  At  least,  as  things  are ;  I  don't  know  what  may  be  in  years 
to  come.  But  I  begin  to  think  there  can  never  come  much 
happiness  to  me  from  loving :  I  have  always  had  so  much 
pain  mingled  with  it.  I  wish  I  could  make  myself  a  world 
outside  it,  as  men  do." 

"  Now  you  are  returning  to  your  old  thought  in  a  new  form, 
Maggie  —  the  thought  I  used  to  combat,"  said  Philip,  with  a 
slight  tinge  of  bitterness.  "You  want  to  find  out  a  mode 
of  renunciation  that  will  be  an  escape  from  pain.     I  tell  you 


440  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

again,  there  is  no  such  escape  possible  except  by  perverting 
or  mutilating  one's  nature.  What  would  become  of  me,  if  I 
tried  to  escape  from  pain  ?  Scorn  and  cynicism  would  be  my 
only  opium ;  unless  I  could  fall  into  some  kind  of  conceited 
madness,  and  fancy  myself  a  favorite  of  Heaven  because  I  am 
not  a  favorite  with  men." 

The  bitterness  had  taken  on  some  impetuosity  as  Philip 
went  on  speaking:  the  words  were  evidently  an  outlet  for 
some  immediate  feeling  of  his  own,  as  well  as  an  answer  to 
Maggie.  There  was  a  pain  pressing  on  him  at  that  moment. 
He  shrank  with  proud  delicacy  from  the  faintest  allusion  to 
the  words  of  love  —  of  plighted  love  that  had  passed  between 
them.  It  would  have  seemed  to  him  like  reminding  Maggie 
of  a  promise ;  it  would  have  had  for  him  something  of  the 
baseness  of  compulsion.  He  could  not  dwell  on  the  fact  that 
he  himself  had  not  changed ;  for  that  too  would  have  had  the 
air  of  an  appeal.  His  love  for  Maggie  was  stamped,  even 
more  than  the  rest  of  his  experience,  with  the  exaggerated 
sense  that  he  was  an  exception  —  that  she,  that  every  one, 
saw  him  in  the  light  of  an  exception. 

But  Maggie  was  conscience-stricken. 

"Yes,  Philip,"  she  said,  with  her  childish  contrition  when 
he  used  to  chide  her,  ''you  are  right,  I  know.  I  do  always 
think  too  much  of  my  own  feelings,  and  not  enough  of  others' 
—  not  enough  of  yours.  I  had  need  have  you  always  to  find 
fault  with  me  and  teach  me :  so  many  things  have  come  true 
that  you  used  to  tell  me." 

Maggie  was  resting  her  elbow  on  the  table,  leaning  her  head 
on  her  hand  and  looking  at  Philip  with  half-penitent  depend- 
ent affection,  as  she  said  this ;  while  he  was  returning  her 
gaze  with  an  expression  that,  to  her  consciousness,  gradually 
became  less  vague  —  became  charged  with  a  specific  recollec- 
tion. Had  his  mind  flown  back  to  something  that  she  now 
remembered? — something  about  a  lover  of  Lucy's?  It  was 
a  thought  that  made  her  shudder  :  it  gave  new  definiteness  to 
her  present  position,  and  to  the  tendency  of  what  had  hap- 
pened the  evening  before.  She  moved  her  arm  from  the 
table,  urged  to   change  her  position  by  that  positive  physical 


THE  GREAT   TEMPTATION.  Ill 

oppression  at  the  heart  that  sometimes  aceomijanies  a  sudden 
mental  pang. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Maggie  ?  Has  something  hap- 
pened?" Philip  said,  in  inexpressible  anxiety  — his  imagi- 
nation being  only  too  ready  to  weave  everything  that  was 
fatal  to  them  both. 

"  No  —  nothing,"  said  Maggie,  rousing  her  latent  will. 
Philip  must  not  have  that  odious  thought  in  his  mind :  she 
would  banish  it  from  her  own.  "Nothing,"  she  repeated, 
"  except  in  my  own  mind.  You  used  to  say  I  should  feel  the 
effect  of  my  starved  life,  as  you  called  it,  and  I  do.  I  am  too 
eager  in  my  enjoyment  of  music  and  all  luxuries,  now  they 
are  come  to  me." 

She  took  up  her  work  and  occupied  herself  resolutely,  while 
Philip  watched  her,  really  in  doubt  whether  she  had  anything 
more  than  this  general  allusion  in  her  mind.  It  was  quite  in 
Maggie's  character  to  be  agitated  by  vague  self-reproach.  But 
soon  there  came  a  violent  well-known  ring  at  the  door-bell  re- 
sounding through  the  house. 

"  Oh,  what  a  startling  announcement !  "  said  Maggie,  quite 
mistress  of  herself,  though  not  without  some  inward  flutter. 
"I  wonder  where  Lucy  is." 

Lucy  had  not  been  deaf  to  the  signal,  and  after  an  interval 
long  enough  for  a  few  solicitous  but  not  hurried  inquiries,  she 
herself  ushered  Stephen  in. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  going  straight  up  to  Philip  and 
shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  bowing  to  Maggie  in  pass- 
ing, "  it 's  glorious  to  have  you  back  again  ;  only  I  wish  you  'd 
conduct  yovirself  a  little  less  like  a  sparrow  with  a  residence 
on  the  house-top,  and  not  go  in  and  out  constantly  without 
letting  the  servants  know.  This  is  about  the  twentieth  time 
I  've  had  to  scamper  up  those  countless  stairs  to  that  painting- 
room  of  yours,  all  to  no  purpose,  because  your  people  thought 
you  were  at  home.     Such  incidents  embitter  friendshi})."' 

"  I  've  so  few  visitors  —  it  seems  hardly  worth  while  to 
leave  notice  of  my  exit  and  entrances,"  said  Philip,  feeling 
rather  oppressed  just  then  by  Stephen's  bright  strong  presence 
and  strong  voice. 


442  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Are  you  quite  well  this  morning,  Miss  Tulliver  ? "  said 
Stephen,  turning  to  Maggie  with  stilt'  politeness,  and  putting 
out  his  hand,  with  the  air  of  fulfilling  a  social  duty. 

Maggie  gave  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  said,  "  Quite  well, 
thank  you,"  in  a  tone  of  proud  indifference.  Philip's  eyes 
were  watching  them  keenly  ;  but  Lucy  was  used  to  seeing 
variations  in  their  manner  to  each  other,  and  only  thought 
with  regret  that  there  was  some  natural  antipathy  which  every 
now  and  then  surmounted  their  mutual  good-will.  "Maggie 
is  not  the  sort  of  wojnan  Stephen  admires,  and  she  is  irritated 
by  something  in  him  which  she  interprets  as  conceit,"  was  the 
silent  observation  that  accounted  for  everything  to  guileless 
Lucy.  Stephen  and  Maggie  had  no  sooner  completed  this 
studied  greeting  than  each  felt  hurt  by  the  other's  coldness. 
And  Stephen,  while  rattling  on  in  questions  to  Philip  about 
his  recent  sketching  expedition,  was  thinking  all  the  more 
about  Maggie  because  he  was  not  drawing  her  into  the  conver- 
sation as  he  had  invariably  done  before.  "  Maggie  and  Philip 
are  not  looking  happy,"  thought  Lucy  :  "  this  first  interview 
has  been  saddening  to  them." 

"  I  think  we  people  who  have  not  been  galloping,"  she  said 
to  Stephen,  "  are  all  a  little  damped  by  the  rain.  Let  us  have 
some  music.  We  ought  to  take  advantage  of  having  Philip 
and  you  together.  Give  us  the  duet  in  '  Masaniello : '  Maggie 
has  not  heard  that,  and  I  know  it  will  suit  her." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  Stephen,  going  towards  the  piano,  and 
giving  a  foretaste  of  the  tune  in  his  deep  "  brum-brum,"  very 
pleasant  to  hear. 

"  You,  please,  Philip  —  you  play  the  accompaniment,"  said 
Lucy,  "  and  then  I  can  go  on  with  my  work.  You  will  like  to 
play,  shan't  you  ? "  she  added,  with  a  pretty  inquiring  look, 
anxious,  as  usual,  lest  she  should  have  proposed  what  was  not 
pleasant  to  another  ;  but  with  yearnings  towards  her  unfinished 
embroidery. 

Philip  had  brightened  at  the  proposition,  for  there  is  no 
feeling,  perhaps,  except  the  extremes  of  fear  and  grief,  that 
does  not  find  relief  in  music  —  that  does  not  make  a  man  sing 
or  play  the  better  ;  and  Philip  had  an  abundance  of  joent-up 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  448 

feeling  at  this  moment,  as  complex  as  any  trio  or  quartet  that 
was  ever  meant  to  express  love  and  jealousy,  and  resignation 
and  fierce  suspicion,  all  at  the  same  time. 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  said,  seating  himself  at  the  piano,  "  it  is  a 
way  of  eking  out  one's  imperfect  life  and  being  three  people 
at  once  —  to  sing  and  make  the  piano  sing,  and  hear  tliem 
both  all  the  while  —  or  else  to  sing  and  paint." 

"  Ah,  there  you  are  an  enviable  fellow.  I  can  do  nothing 
with  my  hands,"  said  Stephen.  '*That  has  generally  been 
observed  in  men  of  great  administrative  capacity,  I  believe. 
A  tendency  to  predominance  of  the  reflective  powers  in  me ! 
—  have  n't  you  observed  that.  Miss  Tulliver  ?  " 

Stephen  had  fallen  by  mistake  into  his  habit  of  playful  ap- 
peal to  Maggie,  and  she  could  not  repress  the  answering  flush 
and  epigram. 

"I  have  observed  a  tendency  to  predominance,"  she  said, 
smiling ;  and  Philip  at  that  moment  devoutly  hoped  that  she 
found  the  tendency  disagreeable. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Lucy;  "music,  music!  We  will  dis- 
cuss each  other's  qualities  another  time." 

Maggie  always  tried  in  vain  to  go  on  with  her  work  when 
music  began.  She  tried  harder  than  ever  to-day ;  for  the 
thought  that  Stephen  knew  how  much  she  cared  for  his  sing- 
ing was  one  that  no  longer  roused  a  merely  playful  resistance  ; 
and  she  knew,  too,  that  it  was  his  habit  alwaj^s  to  stand  so  that 
he  could  look  at  her.  But  it  was  of  no  use  :  she  soon  threw  her 
work  down,  and  all  her  intentions  were  lost  in  the  vague  state 
of  emotion  produced  by  the  inspiring  duet  —  emotion  that 
seemed  to  make  her  at  once  strong  and  weak :  strong  for  all 
enjoyment,  weak  for  all  resistance.  When  the  strain  passed 
into  the  minor,  she  half  started  from  her  seat  with  the  sudden 
thrill  of  that  change.  Poor  Maggie  !  She  looked  very  beau 
tiful  when  her  soul  was  being  played  on  in  this  way  by  the 
inexorable  power  of  sound.  You  might  have  seen  the  slight- 
est perceptible  quivering  through  her  whole  frame  as  she 
leaned  a  little  forward,  clasping  her  hands  as  if  to  steady  her- 
self ;  while  her  eyes  dilated  and  brightened  into  that  wide-open, 
childish  expression  of  wondering  delight  which  always  camo 


444  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

back  in  her  happiest  moments.  Lucy,  who  at  other  times  had 
always  been  at  the  piano  when  Maggie  was  looking  in  this 
way,  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  steal  up  to  her  and  kiss 
her.  Philip,  too,  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  now  and  then  round 
the  open  book  on  the  desk,  and  felt  that  he  had  never  before 
seen  her  under  so  strong  an  influence. 

''  More,  more  ! "  said  Lucy,  when  the  duet  had  been  encored. 
"  Something  spirited  again.  Maggie  always  says  she  likes  a 
great  rush  of  sound." 

"  It  must  be  *  Let  us  take  the  road,'  then,"  said  Stephen  — 
"  so  suitable  for  a  wet  morning.  But  are  you  prepared  to 
abandon  the  most  sacred  duties  of  life,  and  come  and  sing 
with  us  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  "  If  you  will  look  out  the 
'Beggar's  Opera'  from  the  large  canterbury.  It  has  a  dingy 
cover." 

"  That  is  a  great  clew,  considering  there  are  about  a  score 
covers  here  of  rival  dinginess,"  said  Stephen,  drawing  out  the 
canterbury. 

"  Oh,  play  something  the  while,  Philip,"  said  Lucy,  notic- 
ing that  his  fingers  were  wandering  over  the  keys.  "  What  is 
that  you  are  falling  into  ?  —  something  delicious  that  I  don't 
know." 

"  Don't  you  know  that  ?  "  said  Philip,  bringing  out  the  tune 
more  definitely.  "  It 's  from  the  '  Somnambula '  —  '  Ah !  per- 
che  non  posso  odiarti.'  I  don't  know  the  opera,  but  it  appears 
the  tenor  is  telling  the  heroine  that  he  shall  always  love  her 
though  she  may  forsake  him.  You  've  heard  me  sing  it  to  the 
English  words,  '  I  love  thee  still.'  " 

It  was  not  quite  unintentionally  that  Philip  had  wandered 
into  this  song,  which  might  be  an  indirect  expression  to  Maggie 
of  what  he  could  not  prevail  on  himself  to  say  to  her  directly. 
Her  ears  had  been  open  to  what  he  was  saying,  and  when  he 
began  to  sing,  she  understood  the  plaintive  passion  of  the  mu- 
sic. That  pleading  tenor  had  no  very  fine  qualities  as  a  voice, 
but  it  was  not  quite  new  to  her  :  it  had  sung  to  her  by  snatches, 
in  a  subdued  way,  among  the  grassy  walks  and  hollows,  and 
underneath  the  leaning  ash-tree  in  the  Bed  Deeps.      There 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  445 

seemed  to  be  some  reproach  in  the  words  —  did  Philip  mean 
that  ?  She  wished  she  had  assured  him  more  distinctly  in 
their  conversation  that  she  desired  not  to  renew  the  hope  of 
love  between  them,  only  because  it  clashed  with  her  inevitable 
circumstances.  She  was  touched,  not  thrilled  by  the  song: 
it  suggested  distinct  memories  and  thoughts,  and  brought 
quiet  regret  in  the  place  of  excitement. 

"That's  the  way  with  you  tenors,"  said  Stephen,  who  was 
waiting  with  music  in  his  hand  while  Philip  finished  the  song. 
"  You  demoralize  the  fair  sex  by  warbling  your  sentimental 
love  and  constancy  under  all  sorts  of  vile  treatment.  Nothing 
short  of  having  your  heads  served  up  in  a  dish  like  that  medi- 
aeval tenor  or  troubadour,  would  prevent  you  from  expressing 
your  entire  resignation.  I  must  administer  an  antidote,  wliile 
Miss  Deane  prepares  to  tear  herself  away  from  her  bobbins." 

Stephen  rolled  out,  with  saucy  energy  — • 

"  Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman 's  fair  1 " 

and  seemed  to  make  all  the  air  in  the  room  alive  with  a  new 
influence.  Lucy,  always  proud  of  what  Stephen  did,  went 
towards  the  piano  with  laughing,  admiring  looks  at  him  ;  and 
Maggie,  in  spite  of  her  resistance  to  the  spirit  of  the  song  and 
to  the  singer,  was  taken  hold  of  and  shaken  by  the  invisible 
influence  —  was  borne  along  by  a  wave  too  strong  for  her. 

But,  angrily  resolved  not  to  betray  herself,  she  seized  her 
tvork,  and  went  on  making  false  stitches  and  pricking  her 
fingers  with  much  perseverance,  not  looking  up  or  taking  no- 
tice of  what  was  going  forward,  until  all  the  three  voices 
united  in  "  Let  us  take  the  road." 

I  am  afraid  there  would  have  been  a  subtle,  stealing  grati- 
fication in  her  mind  if  she  had  known  how  entirely  this  saucy, 
defiant  Stephen  was  occupied  with  her :  how  he  was  passing 
rapidly  from  a  determination  to  treat  her  with  ostentatious 
indifference  to  an  irritating  desire  for  some  sign  of  inclination 
from  her  —  some  interchange  of  subdued  word  or  look  with 
her.  It  was  not  long  before  he  found  an  opportunity,  when 
they  had  passed  to  the  music  of  "  The  Tempest."      Magr-ie? 


446  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

feeling  the  need  of  a  footstool,  was  walking  across  the  room  to 
get  one,  when  Stephen,  who  was  not  singing  just  then,  and  was 
conscious  of  all  her  movements,  guessed  her  want,  and  flew  to 
anticipate  her,  lifting  the  footstool  with  an  entreating  look  at 
her,  which  made  it  impossible  not  to  return  a  glance  of  grati- 
tude. And  then,  to  have  the  footstool  placed  carefully  by  a 
too  self-confident  personage  —  not  any  self-confident  personage, 
but  one  in  particular,  who  suddenly  looks  humble  and  anxious, 
and  lingers,  bending  still,  to  ask  if  there  is  not  some  draught 
in  that  position  between  the  window  and  the  fireplace,  and 
if  he  may  not  be  allowed  to  move  the  work-table  for  her 
—  these  things  will  summon  a  little  of  the  too  ready,  trai- 
torous tenderness  into  a  woman's  eyes,  compelled  as  she  is  in 
her  girlish  time  to  learn  her  life-lessons  in  very  trivial  lan- 
guage. And  to  Maggie  such  things  had  not  been  every-day 
incidents,  but  were  a  new  element  in  her  life,  and  found  her 
keen  appetite  for  homage  quite  fresh.  That  tone  of  gentle 
solicitude  obliged  her  to  look  at  the  face  that  was  bent  towards 
her,  and  to  say,  "ISTo,  thank  you  ;"  and  nothing  could  prevent 
that  mutual  glance  from  being  delicious  to  both,  as  it  had  been 
the  evening  before. 

It  was  but  an  ordinary  act  of  politeness  in  Stephen ;  it  had 
hardly  taken  two  minutes ;  and  Lucy,  who  was  singing, 
scarcely  noticed  it.  But  to  Philip's  mind,  filled  already 
with  a  vague  anxiety  that  was  likely  to  find  a  definite  ground 
for  itself  in  any  trivial  incident,  this  sudden  eagerness  in 
Stephen,  and  the  change  in  Maggie's  face,  which  was  plainly 
reflecting  a  beam  from  his,  seemed  so  strong  a  contrast  with 
the  previous  overwrought  signs  of  indifference,  as  to  be  charged 
with  painful  meaning.  Stephen's  voice,  pouring  in  again, 
jarred  upon  his  nervous  susceptibility  as  if  it  had  been  the 
clang  of  sheet-iron,  and  he  felt  inclined  to  make  the  piano 
shriek  in  utter  discord.  He  had  really  seen  no  communicable 
ground  for  suspecting  any  unusual  feeling  between  Stephen 
and  Maggie  :  his  own  reason  told  him  so,  and  he  wanted  to  go 
home  at  once  that  he  might  reflect  coolly  on  these  false  images, 
till  he  had  convinced  himself  of  their  nullity.  But  then,  again, 
he  wanted  to  stay  as  long  as  Stephen  stayed  —  always  to  be 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  447 

present  when  Stephen  was  present  with  Maggie.  It  seemed 
to  poor  Philip  so  natural,  nay,  inevitable,  that  any  man  who 
was  near  Maggie  should  fall  in  love  with  her  !  There  was  no 
promise  of  happiness  for  her  if  she  were  beguiled  into  loving 
Stephen  Guest ;  and  this  thought  emboldened  Philip  to  view 
his  own  love  for  her  in  the  light  of  a  less  unequal  offering. 
He  was  beginning  to  play  very  falsely  uuder  this  deafening 
inward  tumult,  and  Lucy  was  looking  at  liim  in  astonish- 
ment, when  Mrs.  Tulliver's  entrance  to  summon  them  to  lunch 
came  as  an  excuse  for  abruptly  breaking  off  the  music. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Philip  ! "  said  Mr.  Deane,  when  they  entered  the 
dining-room,  "  I  've  not  seen  you  for  a  long  while.  Your 
father  's  not  at  home,  I  think,  is  he  ?  I  went  after  him  to 
the  office  the  other  day,  and  they  said  he  was  out  of  town." 

"  He  's  been  to  Mudport  on  business  for  several  days,"  said 
Philip  ;  ''  but  he  's  come  back  now." 

"  As  fond  of  his  farming  hobby  as  ever,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  Philip,  rather  wondering  at  this  sudden 
interest  in  his  father's  pursuits. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mr.  Deane,  "  he  's  got  some  land  in  his  own 
hands  on  this  side  the  river  as  well  as  the  other,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has." 

"  Ah  ! "  continued  Mr.  Deane,  as  he  dispensed  the  pigeon 
pie,  "  he  must  find  farming  a  heavy  item  —  an  expensive 
hobby.  I  never  had  a  hobby  m5^self  —  never  would  give  in 
to  that.  And  the  worst  of  all  hobbies  are  those  that  people 
think  they  can  get  money  at.  They  shoot  their  money  down 
like  corn  out  of  a  sack  then." 

Lucy  felt  a  little  nervous  under  her  father's  apparently 
gratuitous  criticism  of  Mr.  Wakeni's  expenditure.  But  it 
ceased  there,  and  Mr.  Deane  became  unusually  silent  and 
meditative  during  his  luncheon.  Lucy,  accustomed  to  Avatch 
all  indications  in  her  father,  and  having  reasons,  which  had 
recently  become  strong,  for  an  extra  iutt>rcst  in  Avhat  referred 
to  the  Wakems,  felt  an  unusual  curiosity  to  know  what  had 
prompted  her  father's  questions.  His  subsequent  silence  made 
her  suspect  there  had  been  some  special  reason  for  them  in 
his  mind. 


448  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

With  this  idea  in  her  head,  she  resorted  to  her  usual  plan 
when  she  wanted  to  tell  or  ask  her  father  anything  particular : 
she  found  a  reason  for  her  aunt  Tulliver  to  leave  the  dining- 
room  after  dinner,  and  seated  herself  on  a  small  stool  at  her 
father's  knee.  Mr,  Deane,  under  those  circumstances,  con- 
sidered that  he  tasted  some  of  the  most  agreeable  moments 
his  merits  had  purchased  him  in  life,  notwithstanding  that 
Lucy,  disliking  to  have  her  hair  powdered  with  snuff,  usually 
began  by  mastering  his  snuff-box  on  such  occasions. 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep  yet,  papa,  do  you  ? "  she 
said;  as  she  brought  up  her  stool  and  opened  the  large  fingers 
that  clutched  the  snuff-box. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  glancing  at  the  reward  of  merit 
in  the  decanter.  ''  But  what  do  yoii,  want  ?  "  he  added,  pinch- 
ing the  dimpled  chin  fondly.  "  To  coax  some  more  sovereigns 
out  of  my  pocket  for  your  bazaar  ?    Eh  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  no  base  motives  at  all  to-day.  I  only  want  to 
talk,  not  to  beg.  I  want  to  know  what  made  you  ask  Philip 
Wakem  about  his  father's  farming  to-day,  papa  ?  It  seemed 
rather  odd,  because  you  never  hardly  say  anything  to  him 
about  his  father ;  and  why  should  you  care  about  Mr.  Wakem's 
losing  money  by  his  hobby  ?  " 

"  Something  to  do  with  business,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  waving 
his  hands,  as  if  to  repel  intrusion  into  that  mystery. 

''  But,  papa,  you  always  say  Mr.  Wakem  has  brought  Philip 
up  like  a  girl  :  how  came  you  to  think  you  should  get  any 
business  knowledge  out  of  him  ?  Those  abrupt  questions 
sounded  rather  oddly.     Philip  thought  them  queer." 

"  Nonsense,  child  ! "  said  Mr.  Deane,  willing  to  justify  his 
social  demeanor,  with  which  he  had  taken  some  pains  in  his 
upward  progress.  "  There  's  a  report  that  Wakem's  mill  and 
farm  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  —  Dorlcote  Mill,  your 
uncle  Tulliver's,  you  know  —  is  n't  answering  so  well  as  it 
did.  I  wanted  to  see  if  your  friend  Philip  would  let  anything 
out  about  his  father's  being  tired  of  farming." 

"  Why  ?  Would  you  buy  the  mill,  papa,  if  he  would  part 
with  it?"  said  Lucy,  eagerly.  "Oh,  tell  me  everything  — 
here,  you  shall  have  your  snuff-box  if  you  '11  tell  me.     Because 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  449 

Maggie  says  all  their  hearts  are  set  on  Tom's  getting  back 
the  mill  some  time.  It  was  one  of  the  last  things  her  father 
said  to  Tom,  that  he  must  get  back  the  mill." 

"Hush,  you  little  puss,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  availing  himself 
of  the  restored  snuff-box.  "  You  must  not  say  a  word  about 
this  thing  —  do  you  hear  ?  There 's  very  little  chance  of  their 
getting  the  mill,  or  of  anybody 's  getting  it  out  of  Wakem's 
hands.  And  if  he  knew  that  we  wanted  it  with  a  view  to  the 
Tullivers  getting  it  again,  he  'd  be  the  less  likely  to  part  with 
it.  It 's  natural,  after  what  happened.  He  behaved  well 
enough  to  Tulliver  before  ;  but  a  horsewhipping  is  not  likely 
to  be  paid  for  with  sugar-plums." 

"  Now,  papa,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  little  air  of  solemnity,  "  will 
you  trust  me  ?  You  must  not  ask  me  all  my  reasons  for  what 
I  'm  going  to  say  —  but  I  have  very  strong  reasons.  And 
I  'm  very  cautious  —  I  am,  indeed." 

"  Well,  let  us  hear." 

"  Why,  I  believe,  if  you  will  let  me  take  Philip  Wakem 
into  our  confidence  —  let  me  tell  him  all  about  your  wish  to 
buy,  and  what  it 's  for  —  that  my  cousins  wish  to  have  it,  and 
why  they  wish  to  have  it  —  I  believe  Philip  would  help  to 
bring  it  about.     I  know  he  would  desire  to  do  it." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,  child,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  look- 
ing puzzled.  "  Why  should  he  care  ?  "  —  then,  with  a  sud- 
den penetrating  look  at  his  daughter,  "  You  don't  think  the 
poor  lad's  fond  of  you,  and  so  you  can  make  him  do  what 
you  like  ?  "  (Mr.  Deane  felt  quite  safe  about  his  daughter's 
affections.) 

"  Xo,  papa ;  he  cares  very  little  about  me  —  not  so  much 
as  I  care  about  him.  But  I  have  a  reason  for  being  quite 
sure  of  what  I  say.  Don't  you  ask  me.  And  if  you  ever 
guess,  don't  teil  me.  Only  give  me  leave  to  do  as  I  think  fit 
about  it." 

Lucy  rose  from  her  stool  to  seat  herself  on  her  father's 
knee,  and  kissed  him  with  that  last  request. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  won't  do  mischief,  now  ?  "  he  said,  look- 
ing at  her  with  delight. 

"  Yes,  papa,  quite  sure.     I  'm  very  wise  ;  I  've  got  all  your 

VOL.    II.  i^y 


450  THE    MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

business  talents.     Did  n't  you  admire  my  accouut-book,  now, 
when  I  showed  it  you  ?  " 

"Well,  well,  if  this  youngster  will  keep  his  counsel,  there 
won't  be  much  harm  done.  And  to  tell  the  truth,  I  think 
there  's  not  much  chance  for  us  any  other  way.  Now,  let  me 
go  off  to  sleep." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WAKEM    IN   A    NEW    LIGHT. 

Before  three  days  had  passed  after  the  conversation  you 
have  just  overheard  between  Lucy  and  her  father,  she  had 
contrived  to  have  a  private  interview  with  Philip  during  a 
visit  of  Maggie's  to  her  aunt  Glegg.  For  a  day  and  a  night 
Philii^  turned  over  in  his  mind  with  restless  agitation  all  that 
Lucy  had  told  him  in  that  interview,  till  he  had  thoroughly 
resolved  on  a  course  of  action.  He  thought  he  saw  before  him 
now  a  possibility  of  altering  his  position  with  respect  to  Mag- 
gie, and  removing  at  least  one  obstacle  between  them.  He 
laid  his  plan  and  calculated  all  his  moves  with  the  fervid  de- 
liberation of  a  chess-player  in  the  days  of  his  first  ardor,  and 
was  amazed  himself  at  his  sudden  genius  as  a  tactician.  His 
plan  was  as  bold  as  it  was  thoroughly  calculated.  Having 
watched  for  a  moment  when  his  father  had  nothing  more 
urgent  on  his  hands  than  the  newspaper,  he  went  behind  him, 
laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said  — 

"  Father,  will  you  come  up  into  my  sanctum,  and  look  at 
my  new  sketches  ?     I  've  arranged  them  now." 

"  I  'm  getting  terribl}-  stiff  in  the  joints,  Phil,  for  climbing 
those  stairs  of  yours,"  said  Wakem,  looking  kindly  at  his  son 
as  he  laid  down  his  paper.     "  But  come  along,  then." 

"  This  is  a  nice  place  for  you,  is  n't  it,  Phil  ?  —  a  capital 
light  that  from  the  roof,  eh  ?  "  was,  as  usual,  the  first  thing 
he  said  on  entering  the  painting-room.  He  liked  to  remind 
himself  and  his  son  too  that  his  fatherly  indulgence  had  pro- 
vided the  accommodation.     He  had  been  a  good  father.    Emily 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  451 

would  have  nothing  to  reproach  him  with  tliere,  if  she  camo 
back  again  from  her  grave. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said,  putting  his  double  eye-glass  over 
his  nose,  and  seating  himself  to  take  a  general  view  while  ho 
rested,  "you've  got  a  famous  show  here.  Upon  my  wonl.  T 
don't  see  that  your  things  are  n't  as  good  as  that  London  ar- 
tist's—  what's  his  name — that  Leyburn  gave  so  much  money 
for." 

Philip  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  He  had  seated  himself 
on  his  painting-stool,  and  had  taken  a  lead  pencil  in  his  hand, 
with  which  he  was  making  strong  marks  to  counteract  the 
sense  of  treraulousness.  He  watched  his  father  get  up,  and 
walk  slowly  round,  good-naturedly  dwelling  on  the  pictures 
much  longer  than  his  amount  of  genuine  taste  for  landscajie 
would  have  prompted,  till  he  stopped  before  a  stand  on  which 
two  pictures  were  placed  —  one  much  larger  than  the  other  — 
the  smaller  one  in  a  leather  case. 

"  Bless  me !  what  have  you  here  ?  "  said  Wakem,  startled 
by  a  sudden  transition  from  landscape  to  portrait.  "  I  thought 
you  'd  left  off  figures.     Who  are  these  ?  " 

"  They  are  the  same  person,"  said  Philip,  with  calm  prompt- 
ness, "  at  different  ages." 

"  And  what  person  ?  "  said  Wakem,  sharply  fixing  his  eyes 
with  a  growing  look  of  suspicion  on  the  larger  picture. 

"  Miss  Tulliver.  The  small  one  is  something  like  what  she 
was  when  I  was  at  school  with  her  brother  at  King's  Lorton : 
the  larger  one  is  not  quite  so  good  a  likeness  of  what  she  was 
when  I  came  from  abroad." 

Wakem  turiied  round  fiercely,  with  a  flushed  face,  letting 
his  eye-glass  fall,  and  looking  at  his  son  with  a  savage  expres- 
sion for  a  moment,  as  if  he  was  ready  to  strike  that  daring 
feebleness  from  the  stool.  But  he  threw  himself  into  the  arm- 
chair again,  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trouser-pockets,  still 
looking  angrily  at  his  son,  however^  Philip  ilid  not  rrturn 
the  look,  but  sat  quietly  watching  the  point  of  his  pencil. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,  then,  that  you  have  had  any 
acquaintance  with  her  since  you  came  from  abroad  ?  "  said 
Wakem,  at  last,  with  that  vain  effort  which  rage  always  makes 


452  THE   MILL   ON    THE   FLOSS. 

to  throw  as  much  puuishment  as  it  desires  to  inflict  into  words 
and  tones,  since  blows  are  forbidden. 

"  Yes  :  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  her  for  a  whole  year  before 
her  father's  death.  We  met  often  in  that  thicket  —  the  Red 
Deeps  —  near  Dorlcote  Mill.  I  love  her  dearly  :  I  shall  never 
•love  any  other  woman.  I  have  thought  of  her  ever  since  she 
was  a  little  girl." 

"  Go  on,  sir  !  —  and  you  have  corresponded  with  her  all  this 
while  ?  " 

"No.  I  never  told  her  I  loved  her  till  just  before  we 
parted,  and  she  promised  her  brother  not  to  see  me  again  or 
to  correspond  with  me.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  loves  me,  or 
would  consent  to  marry  me.  But  if  she  would  consent  —  if 
she  did  love  me  well  enough  —  I  should  marry  her." 

'•  And  this  is  the  return  you  make  me  for  all  the  indulgences 
I  've  heaped  on  you  ?  "  said  Wakem,  getting  white,  and  begin- 
ning to  tremble  under  an  enraged  sense  of  impotence  before 
Philip's  calm  defiance  and  concentration  of  purpose. 

"No,  father,"  said  Philip,  looking  up  at  him  for  the  first 
time ;  "  I  don't  regard  it  as  a  return.  You  have  been  an 
indulgent  father  to  me ;  but  I  have  always  felt  that  it  was 
because  you  had  an  affectionate  wish  to  give  me  as  much  hap- 
piness as  my  unfortunate  lot  would  admit  of  —  not  that  it 
was  a  debt  j^ou  expected  me  to  pay  by  sacrificing  all  my 
chances  of  happiness  to  satisfy  feelings  of  yours,  which  I  can 
never  share." 

"I  think  most  sons  would  share  their  father's  feelings  in 
this  case,"  said  Wakem,  bitterly.  "  The  girl's  father  was  an 
ignorant  mad  brute,  who  was  within  an  inch  of  murdering  me. 
The  whole  town  knows  it.  And  the  brother  is  iust  as  insolent, 
only  in  a  cooler  way.  He  forbade  her  seeing  yau,  you  say ; 
he  '11  break  every  bone  in  your  body,  for  your  greater  happi- 
ness, if  you  don't  take  care.  But  you  seem  to  have  madt^  up 
your  mind  :  you  have  counted  the  consequences,  I  suppose. 
Of  course  you  are  independent  of  me :  you  can  marry  this 
girl  to-morrow,  if  you  like :  you  are  a  man  of  five-and-twenty 
—  you  can  go  your  way,  and  I  can  go  mine.  We  need  have 
no  more  to  do  with  each  other." 


THE   GKEAT   TEMPTATION.  453 

Wakem  rose  and  walked  towards  the  door,  but  something 
held  him  back,  and  instead  of  leaving  the  room,  he  walked  up 
and  down  it.  Philip  was  slow  to  reply,  and  when  he  spoke, 
his  tone  had  a  more  incisive  quietness  and  clearness  than 
ever. 

"  No  :  I  can't  marry  Miss  Tulliver,  even  if  she  would  have 
me  —  if  I  have  only  my  own  resources  to  maintain  her  with. 
I  have  been  brought  up  to  no  profession.  I  can't  offer  her 
poverty  as  well  as  deformity." 

"  Ah,  there  is  a  reason  for  your  clinging  to  me,  doubtless," 
said  Wakem,  still  bitterly,  though  Philip's  last  words  had 
given  him  a  pang :  they  had  stirred  a  feeling  wliich  had  been 
a  habit  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  He  threw  himself  iuto  the 
chair  again. 

"  I  expected  all  this,"  said  Philip.  "  I  know  these  scenes 
are  often  happening  between  father  and  son.  If  I  were  like 
other  men  of  my  age,  I  might  answer  your  angry  words  by 
still  angrier  —  we  might  part  —  I  should  marry  the  woman 
I  love,  and  have  a  chance  of  being  as  happy  as  the  rest.  But 
if  it  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  annihilate  the  very  object 
of  everything  you  've  done  for  me,  you  have  an  advantage 
over  most  fathers :  you  can  completely  deprive  me  of  the  only 
thing  that  would  make  my  life  worth  having." 

Philip  paused,  but  his  father  was  silent. 

"  You  know  best  what  satisfaction  you  would  have,  beyond 
that  of  gratifying  a  ridiculous  rancor  worthy  only  of  wander- 
ing savages." 

"Ridiculous  rancor!"  Wakem  burst  out.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?  Damn  it !  is  a  man  to  be  horsewhipped  by  a  boor  and 
love  him  for  it  ?  Besides,  there 's  that  cold,  proud  devil  of  a 
son,  who  said  a  word  to  me  I  shall  not  forget  when  we  had  the 
settling.  He  would  be  as  pleasant  a  mark  for  a  bullet  as  I 
know  —  if  he  were  worth  the  expense." 

"  I  don't  mean  your  resentment  towards  them,"  said  Philip, 
jwho  had  his  reasons  for  some  sympathy  with  this  view  of  Tom, 
"though  a  feeling  of  revenge  is  not  worth  much,  that  you 
should  care  to  keep  it.  I  mean  your  extending  the  enmity  to 
helpless  girl,  who  has  too  much  sense  and  goodness  to  share 


454  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

their  narrow  prejudices.  She  lias  never  entered  into  the  family 
quarrels." 

"  What  does  that  signify  ?  We  don't  ask  what  a  woman 
does  —  we  ask  whom  she  belongs  to.  It 's  altogether  a  de- 
grading thing  to  you  — to  think  of  marrying  old  Tulliver's 
daughter.'' 

For  the  first  time  in  the  dialogue,  Philip  lost  some  of  his 
self-coutrol,  and  colored  with  anger. 

''  Miss  Tulliver,"  he  said,  with  bitter  incisiveness,  "  has  the 
only  grounds  of  rank  that  anything  but  vulgar  folly  can  sup- 
pose to  belong  to  the  middle  class  :  she  is  thoroughly  refined, 
and  her  friends,  whatever  else  they  may  be,  are  respected  for 
irreproachable  honor  and  integrity.  All  St.  Ogg's,  I  fancy, 
would  pronounce  her  to  be  more  than  my  equal.'' 

Wakem  darted  a  glance  of  fierce  question  at  his  son;  but 
Philip  was  not  looking  at  him,  and  with  a  certain  penitent 
consciousness  went  on,  in  a  few  moments,  as  if  in  amplification 
of  his  last  words  — 

"Find  a  single  person  in  St.  Ogg's  who  will  not  tell  you 
that  a  beautiful  creature  like  her  would  be  throwing  herself 
away  on  a  pitiable  object  like  me." 

"  Not  she  !  "  said  Wakem,  rising  again,  and  forgetting  every- 
thing else  in  a  burst  of  resentful  pride,  half  fatherly,  half 
personal.  "  It  would  be  a  deuced  fine  match  for  her.  It 's  all 
stuff  about  an  accidental  deformity,  when  a  girl's  really  at- 
tached to  a  man." 

*'  But  girls  are  not  apt  to  get  attached  under  those  circum- 
stances," said  Philip. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Wakem,  rather  brutally,  trying  to  recover 
his  previous  position,  "if  she  does  n't  care  for  you,  you  might 
have  spared  yourself  the  trouble  of  talking  to  me  about  her  — 
and  you  might  have  spared  me  the  trouble  of  refusing  my  con- 
sent to  what  was  never  likely  to  happen." 

Wakem  strode  to  the  door,  and,  without  looking  round  again, 
banged  it  after  him. 

Philip  was  not  without  confidence  that  his  father  would  be 
ultimately  wrought  upon  as  he  liad  expected,  by  what  had 
passed ;  but  the  sceue  had  jarred  upon  his  nerves,  which  were 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  455 

as  sensitive  as  a  woman's.  He  determined  not  to  go  down  to 
dinner :  he  could  n't  meet  his  father  again  that  day.  It  was 
Wakem's  habit,  when  he  had  no  company  at  home,  to  go  out 
in  the  evening  —  of  ten  as  early  as  half-past  seven;  and  as  it 
was  far  on  in  the  afternoon  now,  Philip  locked  up  liis  room 
and  went  out  for  a  long  ramble,  thinking  he  would  not  return 
until  his  father  was  out  of  the  house  again.  He  got  into  a 
boat,  and  went  down  the  river  to  a  favorite  village,  where  he 
dined,  and  lingered  till  it  was  late  enough  for  him  to  return. 
He  had  never  had  any  sort  of  quarrel  with  his  father  before, 
and  had  a  sickening  fear  that  this  contest,  just  begun,  might 
go  on  for  weeks  —  and  what  might  not  happen  in  that  time  ? 
He  would  not  allow  himself  to  deiine  what  that  involuntary 
question  meant.  But  if  he  could  once  be  in  the  position  of 
Maggie's  accepted,  acknowledged  lover,  there  would  be  less 
room  for  vague  dread.  He  went  up  to  his  painting-room  again, 
and  threw  himself  with  a  sense  of  fatigue  into  the  arm-chair, 
looking  round  absently  at  the  views  of  water  and  rock  that 
were  ranged  around,  till  he  fell  into  a  doze,  in  which  he  fan- 
cied Maggie  was  slipping  down  a  glistening,  green,  slimy  chan- 
nel of  a  waterfall,  and  he  was  looking  on  helpless,  till  he  was 
awakened  by  what  seemed  a  sudden,  awful  crash. 

It  was  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  he  could  hardly  have 
dozed  more  than  a  few  moments,  for  there  was  no  perceptible 
change  in  the  evening  light.  It  was  his  father  who  entered  j 
and  when  Philip  moved  to  vacate  the  chair  for  him,  he  said  — 

"  Sit  still.     I  'd  rather  walk  about." 

He  stalked  up  and  down  the  room  once  or  twice,  and  then, 
standing  opposite  Philip  with  his  hands  thrust  in  his  side 
pockets,  he  said,  as  if  continuing  a  conversation  that  had  not 
been  broken  off  — 

"But  this  girl  seems  to  have  been  fond  of  you,  Phil,  else 
she  would  n't  have  met  you  in  that  way." 

Philip's  heart  was  beating  rapidly,  and  a  transient  flush 
passed  over  his  face  like  a  gleam.  It  was  not  quite  easy  to 
speak  at  once. 

"  She  liked  me  at  King's  Lorton,  when  she  was  a  little  girl, 
because  I  used  to  sit  with  her  brother  a  great  deal  when  he 


456  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

had  hurt  his  foot.  She  had  kept  that  in  her  memory,  and 
thought  of  me  as  a  friend  of  a  long  while  ago.  She  didn't 
think  of  me  as  a  lover  when  she  met  me." 

"  Well,  but  you  made  love  to  her  at  last.  What  did  she  say 
then  ?  "  said  Wakem,  walking  about  again. 

"  She  said  she  did  love  me  then." 

"  Confound  it,  then,  what  else  do  you  want  ?  Is  she  a 
jilt?" 

"  She  was  very  young  then,"  said  Philip,  hesitatingly.  "  I  'm 
afraid  she  hardly  knew  what  she  felt.  I  'm  afraid  our  long 
separation,  and  the  idea  that  events  must  always  divide  us, 
may  have  made  a  difference." 

"  But  she  's  in  the  town.  I  've  seen  her  at  church.  Have  n't 
you  spoken  to  her  since  you  came  back  ?  " 

"  Yes,  at  Mr.  Deane's.  But  I  could  n't  renew  my  proposals 
to  her  on  several  grounds.  One  obstacle  would  be  removed  if 
you  would  give  your  consent  —  if  you  would  be  willing  to 
think  of  her  as  a  daughter-in-law." 

Wakem  was  silent  a  little  while,  pausing  before  Maggie's 
picture. 

"  She  's  not  the  sort  of  woman  your  mother  was,  though, 
Phil,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  I  saw  her  at  church  —  she  's  hand- 
somer than  this  —  deuced  fine  eyes  and  fine  figure,  I  saw ;  but 
rather  dangerous  and  unmanageable,  eh  ?  " 

"  She 's  very  tender  and  affectionate ;  and  so  simple  —  with- 
out the  airs  and  petty  contrivances  other  women  have." 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  Wakem.  Then  looking  round  at  his  son,  "  But 
your  mother  looked  gentler:  she  had  that  brown  wavy  hair 
and  gray  eyes,  like  yours.  You  can't  remember  her  very  well. 
It  was  a  thousand  pities  I  'd  no  likeness  of  her." 

"  Then,  should  n't  you  be  glad  for  me  to  have  the  same  sort 
of  happiness,  father  —  to  sweeten  my  life  for  me  ?  There  can 
never  be  another  tie  so  strong  to  you  as  that  which  began 
eight-and-twenty  years  ago,  when  you  married  my  mother,  and 
you  have  been  tightening  it  ever  since." 

"  Ah,  Phil  —  you  're  the  only  fellow  that  knows  the  best  of 
me,"  said  Wakem,  giving  his  hand  to  his  son.  "We  must 
keep  together  if  we  can.     And  now,  what  am  I  to  do  ?     You 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  4r>7 

must  come  dowu-stairs  and  tell  me.     Am  I  to  go  aud  call  on 
this  dark-eyed  damsel  ?  " 

The  barrier  once  thrown  down  in  this  way.  I'liilip  could  talk 
freely  to  his  lather  of  their  entire  relation  with  the  Tullivcrs 
—  of  the  desire  to  get  the  mill  and  laud  back  mt,.  the  family  — 
and  of  its  transfer  to  Guest  &  Co.  as  an  mtermediate  step.  Tie 
could  venture  now  to  be  persuasive  and  urgent,  and  liis  father 
yielded  with  more  readiness  than  he  had  calculated  on. 

"/don't  care  about  the  mill,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  sort  of 
angry  compliance.  "  I  Ve  had  an  infernal  deal  of  bother  lately 
about  the  mill.  Let  them  pay  me  for  my  improvements,  that 's 
all.  But  there 's  one  thing  you  need  n't  ask  me.  I  shall  have 
no  direct  transactions  Avith  young  Tulliver.  If  you  like  to 
swallow  him  for  his  sister's  sake,  you  may  ;  but  I  've  no  sauce 
that  will  make  him  go  down." 

I  leave  you  to  imagine  the  agreeable  feelings  with  which 
Philip  went  to  Mr.  Deane  the  next  day.  to  say  that  IMr.  Wakem 
was  ready  to  open  the  negotiations,  and  Lucy's  pretty  triumph 
as  she  appealed  to  her  father  whether  she  had  not  proved  her 
great  business  abilities.  Mr.  Deane  was  rather  puzzled,  and 
suspected  that  there  had  been  something  "  going  on  "  among 
the  young  people  to  W'hich  he  wanted  a  clew.  But  to  men  of 
Mr.  Deane's  stamp,  what  goes  on  among  the  young  people  is  as 
extraneous  to  the  real  business  of  life  as  what  goes  on  among 
the  birds  and  butterflies  —  until  it  can  be  shown  to  have  a 
malign  bearing  on  monetary  affairs.  And  m  this  case  the 
bearing  appeared  to  be  entirely  propitious. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CHARITY    IN   FULL-DRESS. 


The  culmination  of  Maggie's  career  as  an  admired  member 
of  society  in  St.  Ogg's  was  certainly  the  day  of  the  bazaar, 
when  her  simple  noble  beauty,  clad  in  a  white  muslin  of  some 
soft-floating  kind,  which  I  suspect  must  have  come  from  the 


458  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

stores  of  auut  Pullet's  wardrobe,  appeared  with  marked  dis- 
tiuction  among  the  more  adorned  and  conventional  women 
around  her.  We  perhaps  never  detect  how  much  of  our  social 
demeanor  is  made  up  of  artificial  airs,  until  we  see  a  person 
who  is  at  once  beautiful  and  simple  :  without  the  beauty,  we 
are  apt  to  call  simplicity  awkwardness.  The  Miss  Guests 
were  much  too  well-bred  to  have  any  of  the  grimaces  and 
affected  tones  that  belong  to  pretentious  vulgarity  ;  but  their 
stall  being  next  to  the  one  where  Maggie  sat,  it  seemed  newly 
obvious  to-day  that  Miss  Guest  held  her  chin  too  high,  and 
that  Miss  Laura  spoke  and  moved  continually  with  a  view  to 
effect. 

All  well-drest  St.  Ogg's  and  its  neighborhood  were  there ; 
and  it  would  have  been  worth  while  to  come  even  from  a 
distance,  to  see  the  fine  old  hall,  with  its  open  roof  and  carved 
oaken  rafters,  and  great  oaken  folding-doors,  and  light  shed 
down  from  a  height  on  the  many-colored  show  beneath :  a 
very  quaint  place,  with  broad  faded  stripes  painted  on  the 
walls,  and  here  and  there  a  show  of  heraldic  animals  of  a 
bristly,  long-snouted  character,  the  cherished  emblems  of  a 
noble  family  once  the  seigniors  of  this  now  civic  hall.  A 
grand  arch,  cut  in  the  upper  wall  at  one  end,  surmounted  an 
oaken  orchestra,  with  an  open  room  behind  it,  where  hot- 
house plants  and  stalls  for  refreshments  were  disposed :  an 
agreeable  resort  for  gentlemen,  disposed  to  loiter,  and  yet  to 
exchange  the  occasional  crush  down  below  for  a  more  commo- 
dious point  of  view.  In  fact,  the  perfect  fitness  of  this  ancient 
building  for  an  admirable  modern  purpose,  that  made  charity 
truly  elegant,  and  led  through  vanity  up  to  the  supply  of  a 
deficit,  was  so  striking  that  hardly  a  person  entered  the  room 
without  exchanging  the  remark  more  than  once.  Near  the 
great  arch  over  the  orchestra  was  the  stone  oriel  with  painted 
glass,  which  was  one  of  the  venerable  inconsistencies  of  the 
old  hall ;  and  it  was  close  by  this  that  Lucy  had  her  stall,  for 
the  convenience  of  certain  large  plain  articles  which  she  had 
taken  charge  of  for  Mrs.  Keun.  Maggie  had  begged  to  sit  at 
the  open  end  of  the  stall,  and  to  have  the  sale  of  these  articles 
ratbfir  than  of   bead-mats  and  other   elaborate   products,  of 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  4'>^ 

which  she  had  but  a  dim  understanding.  JJut  it  noon  appeared 
that  the  gentlemen's  dressing-gowns,  which  were  among  lier 
commodities,  were  objects  of  such  general  attention  and  in- 
quiry, and  excited  so  troublesome  a  curiosity  as  to  their  lining 
and  comparative  merits,  together  with  a  determination  to  test 
them  by  trying  on,  as  to  make  her  post  a  very  conspicuous 
one.  The  ladies  who  had  commodities  of  their  own  to  sell, 
and  did  not  want  dressing-gowns,  saw  at  once  the  frivolity 
and  bad  taste  of  this  masculine  preference  for  goods  which 
any  tailor  could  furnish  ;  and  it  is  possible  that  the  emi)hatic 
notice  of  various  kinds  which  was  drawn  towards  Miss  TuUi- 
ver  on  this  public  occasion,  threw  a  very  strong  and  unmis- 
takable light  on  her  subsequent  conduct  in  many  minds  then 
present.  Not  that  anger,  on  account  of  spurned  beauty,  can 
dwell  in  the  celestial  breasts  of  charitable  ladies,  but  rather, 
that  the  errors  of  persons  who  have  once  been  much  admired 
necessarily  take  a  deeper  tinge  from  the  mere  force  of  con- 
trast ;  and  also,  that  to-day  Maggie's  conspicuous  position,  for 
the  first  time,  made  evident  certain  characteristics  which  were 
subsequently  felt  to  have  an  explanatory  bearing.  There  was 
something  rather  bold  in  Miss  Tulliver's  direct  gaze,  and 
something  undefinably  coarse  in  the  style  of  her  beaut}',  which 
placed  her,  in  the  opinion  of  all  feminine  judges,  far  below 
her  cousin  Miss  Deane ;  for  the  ladies  of  St.  Ogg's  had  now 
completely  ceded  to  Lucy  their  hypothetic  claims  on  the 
admiration  of  Mr.  Stephen  Guest. 

As  for  dear  little  Lucy  herself,  her  late  benevolent  triumph 
about  the  Mill,  and  all  the  affectionate  projects  she  was 
cherishing  for  Maggie  and  Philip,  helped  to  give  her  the 
highest  spirits  to-day,  and  she  felt  nothing  but  pleasure  in 
the  evidence  of  Maggie's  attractiveness.  It  is  true,  she  was 
looking  very  charming  herself,  and  Stephen  was  paying  her 
the  utmost  attention  on  this  public  occasion  ;  jealously  buying 
up  the  articles  he  had  seen  under  her  fingyrs  in  the  process  of 
making,  and  gayly  helping  her  to  cajole  the  male  customers 
into  the  purchase  of  the  most  effeminate  futilities.  He  chose 
to  lay  aside  his  hat  and  wear  a  scarlet  fez  of  her  embroid- 
ering ;  but  by  superficial  observers  this  was  necessarily  liable 


460  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

to  be  interpreted  less  as  a  compliment  to  Lucy  than  as  a  maris 
of  coxcombry.  "  Guest  is  a  great  coxcomb,"  young  Torry 
observed ;  '•'  but  then  he  is  a  privileged  person  in  St.  Ogg's  — 
he  carries  all  before  him  :  if  another  fellow  did  such  things, 
everybody  Avould  say  he  made  a  fool  of  himself." 

And  Stephen  purchased  absolutely  nothing  from  Maggie, 
until  Lucy  said,  in  rather  a  vexed  undertone  — 

"  See,  now ;  all  the  things  of  Maggie's  knitting  will  be 
gone,  and  you  will  not  have  bought  one.  There  are  those 
deliciously  soft  warm  things  for  the  wrists  —  do  buy  them." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Stephen,  "  they  must  be  intended  for  imagi- 
native persons,  who  can  chill  themselves  on  this  warm  day  by 
thinking  of  the  frosty  Caucasus.  Stern  reason  is  my  forte, 
you  know.  You  must  get  Philip  to  buy  those.  By  the  way, 
why  does  n't  he  come  ?  " 

"  He  never  likes  going  where  there  are  many  people,  though 
I  enjoined  him  to  come.  He  said  he  would  buy  up  any  of  my 
goods  that  the  rest  of  the  world  rejected.  But  now,  do  go 
and  buy  something  of  Maggie." 

"  No,  no  —  see  —  she  has  got  a  customer  :  there  is  old 
Wakem  himself  just  coming  up," 

Lucy's  eyes  turned  with  anxious  interest  towards  Maggie, 
to  see  how  she  went  through  this  first  interview,  since  a  sadly 
memorable  time,  with  a  man  towards  whom  she  must  have  so 
strange  a  mixture  of  feelings  ;  but  she  was  pleased  to  notice 
that  Wakem  had  tact  enough  to  enter  at  once  into  talk  about 
the  bazaar  wares,  and  appear  interested  in  purchasing,  smil- 
ing now  and  then  kindly  at  Maggie,  and  not  calling  on  her  to 
speak  much,  as  if  he  observed  that  she  was  rather  pale  and 
tremulous. 

"  Why,  Wakem  is  making  himself  particularly  amiable  to 
your  cousin,"  said  Stephen,  in  an  undertone  to  Lucy  ;  "  is  it 
pure  magnanimity  ?  you  talked  of  a  family  quarrel." 

"  Oh,  that  will  soon  be  quite  healed,  I  hope,"  said  Lucy, 
becoming  a  little  indiscreet  in  her  satisfaction,  and  speaking 
with  an  air  of  significance.  But  Stephen  did  not  appear  to 
notice  this,  and  as  some  lady-purchasers  came  up,  he  lounged 
on  towards  Maggie's  end,  handling  trifles  and  standing  aloof 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  461 

nntil  Wakem,  who  had  taken  out  his  purse,  had  finished  his 
transactions. 

"My  son  came  with  me,"  he  overheard  Wakem  saying, 
"  but  he  has  vanished  into  some  other  part  of  the  building, 
and  has  left  all  these  charitable  gallantries  to  me.  I  hope 
you'll  reproach  him  for  his  shabby  conduct." 

She  returned  his  smile  and  bow  without  speaking,  and  he 
turned  away,  only  then  observing  Stephen,  and  nodding  to 
him.  Maggie,  conscious  that  Stephen  was  still  there,  busied 
herself  with  counting  money,  and  avoided  looking  up.  She 
had  been  well  pleased  that  he  had  devoted  himself  to  Lucy 
to-day,  and  had  not  come  near  her.  They  had  begun  the 
morning  with  an  indifferent  salutation,  and  both  had  rejoiced 
in  being  aloof  from  each  other,  like  a  patient  who  has  actually 
done  without  his  opium,  in  spite  of  former  failures  in  resolu- 
tion. And  during  the  last  few  days  they  had  even  been 
making  up  their  minds  to  failures,  looking  to  the  outward 
events  that  must  soon  come  to  separate  them,  as  a  reason  for 
dispensing  with  self -con  quest  in  detail. 

Stephen  moved  step  by  step  as  if  he  were  being  unwillingly 
dragged,  until  he  had  got  round  the  open  end  of  the  stall,  and 
was  half  hidden  by  a  screen  of  draperies.  Maggie  went  on 
counting  her  money  till  she  suddenly  heard  a  deep  gentle 
voice  saying,  "  Are  n't  you  very  tired  ?  Do  let  me  bring  you 
something  —  some  fruit  or  jelly  —  may  n't  I  ?  " 

The  unexpected  tones  shook  her  like  a  sudden  accidental 
vibration  of  a  harp  close  by  her. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  she  said,  faintly,  and  only  half  look- 
ing up  for  an  instant. 

"  You  look  so  pale,"  Stephen  insisted,  in  a  more  entreating 
tone.  "I'm  sure  you're  exhausted.  I  must  disobey  you, 
and  bring  something." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  could  n't  take  it." 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?     What  have  I  done  ?    Bo  look 

at  me." 

"Pray,  go  away,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  him  helplessly, 
her  eyes  glancing  immediately  from  him  to  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  orchestra,  which  was  half  hidden  by  the  folds  of 


462  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS, 

the  old  faded  green  curtain.  Maggie  had  no  sooner  uttered 
this  entreaty  than  she  was  wretched  at  the  admission  it  im- 
plied ;  but  Stephen  turned  away  at  once,  and,  following  her 
upward  glance,  he  saw  Philip  Wakem  seated  in  the  half- 
hidden  corner,  so  that  he  could  command  little  more  than 
that  angle  of  the  hall  in  which  Maggie  sat.  An  entirely  new- 
thought  occurred  to  Stephen,  and,  linking  itself  with  what  he 
had  observed  of  Wakem's  manner,  and  with  Lucy's  reply  to 
his  observation,  it  convinced  him  that  there  had  been  some 
former  relation  between  Philip  aud  Maggie  beyond  that 
childish  one  of  which  he  had  heard.  More  than  one  impulse 
made  him  immediately  leave  the  hall  and  go  up-stairs  to  the 
refreshment-room,  where,  walking  up  to  Philip,  he  sat  down 
behind  him,  and  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Are  you  studying  for  a  portrait,  Phil,"  he  said,  "  or  for  a 
sketch  of  that  oriel  window  ?  By  George,  it  makes  a  capital 
bit  from  this  dark  corner,  with  the  curtain  just  marking 
it  off." 

"I  have  been  studying  expression,"  said  Philip,  curtly. 

"  What !  Miss  Tulliver's  ?  It 's  rather  of  the  savage- 
moody  order  to-day,  I  think  —  something  of  the  fallen  prin- 
cess serving  behind  a  counter.  Her  cousin  sent  me  to  her 
with  a  civil  offer  to  get  her  some  refreshment,  but  I  have  been 
snubbed,  as  usual.  There  's  a  natural  antipathy  between  us, 
I  suppose  :  I  have  seldom  the  honor  to  please  her." 

"  What  a  hypocrite  you  are  !  "  said  Philip,  flushing 
angrily. 

"  What !  because  experience  must  have  told  me  that  I  'm 
universally  pleasing  ?  I  admit  the  law,  but  there 's  some 
disturbing  force  here." 

"  I  am  going,"  said  Philip,  rising  abruptly. 

"  So  am  I  —  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air ;  this  place  gets 
oppressive.  I  think  I  have  done  suit  and  service  long 
enough." 

The  two  friends  walked  down-stairs  together  without  speak- 
ing. Philip  turned  through  the  outer  door  into  the  courtyard, 
but  Stephen,  saying,  "  Oh,  by  the  bye,  I  must  call  in  here," 
went  on  along  the  passage  to  one  of  the  rooms  at  the  other 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  403 

end  of  the  building,  which  were  approi.riatod  to  the  town 
library.  He  had  the  room  all  to  himself,  and  a  man  recjuires 
nothing  less  than  this,  when  he  wants  to  dasli  his  can  on  the 
table,  throw  himself  astride  a  chair,  and  stare  at  a  higli  brick 
wall  with  a  frown  which  would  not  have  been  beneath  the 
occasion  if  he  had  been  slaying  ^'  the  giant  Pvthon."  The  con 
duct  that  issues  from  a  moral  conflict  has  often  so  close  a 
resemblance  to  vice,  that  the  distinction  escapes  all  outward 
judgments,  founded  on  a  mere  comparison  of  actions  It  is 
clear  to  you,  I  hope,  that  Stephen  was  not  a  hypocrite  - 
capable  of  deliberate  doubleness  for  a  selfish  end;  and  yet  his 
fluctuations  between  the  indulgence  of  a  feeling  and  the 
systematic  concealment  of  it,  might  have  made  a  good  case  in 
support  of  Philip's  accusation. 

Meanwhile,  Maggie  sat  at  her  stall  cold  and  trembling,  with 
that  painful  sensation  in  the  eyes  which  comes  from  resolutely 
repressed   tears.     Was   her   life   to   be  always   like   this  ?  — 
always   bringing  some   new   source   of  inward   strife?     She 
heard  confusedly  the  busy  indifferent  voices  around  her,  and 
wished  her  mind  could  flow  into  that  easy  babbling  current. 
It  was  at  this  moment  that  Dr.  Kenn,  who  had  quite  lately 
come  into  the  hall,  and  was  now  walking   down  the  middle 
with  his  hands  behind  him,  taking  a  general  view,  fixed  his 
eyes  on  Maggie  for  the  first  time,  and  was  struck  with  the 
expression   of   pain  on  her  beautiful   face.     She  was   sitting 
quite  still,  for  the  stream  of  customers  had  lessened  at  this 
late  hour  in  the  afternoon :  the  gentlemen  had  chiefly  chosen 
the  middle  of  the  day,  and  Maggie's  stall  was  looking  rather 
bare.     This,  with  her  absent,  pained  expression,  finished  the 
contrast  between  her  and  her  companions,  who  were  all  bright, 
eager,  and  busy.     He  was  strongly  arrested.     Her  face  had 
I  naturally  drawn   his  attention  as  a  new  and  striking  one  at 
j  church,  and  he  had  been  introduced  to  her  during  a  short  call 
!on  business  at  Mr.  Deane's,  but  he  had  never  spoken  more 
I  than  three  words  to  her.     He  walked  towards  her  now,  and 
I  Maggie,  perceiving  some  one  approaching,  roused  herself  to 
'look  up  and  be  prepared  to  speak.     She  felt  a  childlike,  in- 
stinctive relief  from  the  sense  of  uneasiness  in  this  exertion. 


464  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

when  she  saw  it  was  Dr.  Kenn's  face  that  was  looking  at  her ; 
that  plain,  middle-aged  face,  with  a  grave,  penetrating  kind- 
ness in  it,  seeming  to  tell  of  a  human  being  who  had  reached 
a  firm,  safe  strand,  but  was  looking  with  helpful  pity  towards 
the  strugglers  still  tossed  by  the  waves,  had  an  effect  on 
Maggie  at  this  moment  which  was  afterwards  remembered  by 
her  as  if  it  had  been  a  promise.  The  middle-aged,  who  have 
lived  through  their  strongest  emotions,  but  are  yet  in  the 
time  when  memory  is  still  half  passionate  and  not  merely  con- 
templative, should  surely  be  a  sort  of  natural  priesthood, 
whom  life  has  disciplined  and  consecrated  to  be  the  refuge 
and  rescue  of  early  stumblers  and  victims  of  self-despair. 
Most  of  us,  at  some  moment  in  our  young  lives,  would  have 
welcomed  a  priest  of  that  natural  order  in  any  sort  of  canoni- 
cals or  uncanonicals,  but  had  to  scramble  upwards  into  all  the 
difficulties  of  nineteen  entirely  without  such  aid,  as  Maggie 
did. 

"  You  find  your  office  rather  a  fatiguing  one,  I  fear,  Miss 
Tulliver  ? "  said  Dr.  Kenn. 

"  It  is,  rather,"  said  Maggie,  simply,  not  being  accustomed 
to  simper  amiable  denials  of  obvious  facts. 

"  But  I  can  tell  Mrs.  Kenn  that  you  have  disposed  of  her 
goods  very  quickly,"  he  added ;  "  she  will  be  very  much 
obliged  to  you." 

"  Oh,  I  have  done  nothing :  the  gentlemen  came  very  fast 
to  buy  the  dressing-gowns  and  embroidered  waistcoats,  but  I 
think  any  of  the  other  ladies  would  have  sold  more :  I  did  n't] 
know  what  to  say  about  them." 

Dr.  Kenn  smiled.  "  I  hope  I  'm  going  to  have  you  as  I 
a  permanent  parishioner  now.  Miss  Tulliver  —  am  I  ?  You  ] 
have  been  at  a  distance  from  us  hitherto." 

"  I  have  been  a  teacher  in  a  school,  and  I  'ra  going  into  j 
another  situation  of  the  same  kind  very  soon." 

"Ah  ?  I  was  hoping  you  would  remain  among  your  friends,, 
who  are  all  in  this  neighborhood,  I  believe." 

"  Oh,  I  must  go,''^  said  Maggie,  earnestly,  looking  at  Dr. 
Kenn  with  an  expression  of  reliance,  as  if  she  had  told  hiui 
her  history  in  those  three  words.     It  was  one  of  those  momenta 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  Jfirj 

of  implicit  revelation  wliich  will  sometimes  happen  even  be- 
tween people  who  meet  quite  transiently  —  on  a  mile's  jour- 
ney, perhaps,  or  when  resting  by  the  wayside.  There  is 
always  this  possibility  of  a  word  or  look  from  a  stranger  to 
keep  alive  the  sense  of  human  brotherhood. 

Dr.  Kenn's  ear  and  eye  took  in  all  the  signs  that  this  brief 
confidence  of  Maggie's  was  charged  with  meaning. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said  ;  "  you  feel  it  right  to  go.  But 
that  will  not  prevent  our  meeting  again,  I  hope :  it  will  not 
prevent  my  knowing  you  better,  if  I  can  be  of  any  service 
to  you." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  pressed  hers  kindly  before  he 
turned  away. 

"  She  has  some  trouble  or  other  at  heart,"  he  thought. 
"  Poor  child  !  she  looks  as  if  she  might  turn  out  to  be  one  of 

*  The  souls  by  nature  pitched  too  high, 
By  suffering  plunged  too  low.' 

There 's  something  wonderfully  honest  in  those  beautiful 
eyes." 

It  may  be  surprising  that  Maggie,  among  whose  many  im- 
perfections an  excessive  delight  in  admiration  and  acknowl- 
edged supremacy  were  not  absent  now,  any  more  than  when 
she  was  instructing  the  gypsies  with  a  view  towards  achieving 
a  royal  position  among  them,  was  not  more  elated  on  a  day 
when  she  had  had  the  tribute  of  so  many  looks  and  smiles, 
together  with  that  satisfactory  consciousness  which  had  neces- 
sarily come  from  being  taken  before  Lucy's  cheval-glass,  and 
made  to  look  at  the  full  length  of  her  tall  beauty,  crowned  by 
the  night  of  her  massy  hair.  Maggie  had  smiled  at  herself 
then,  and  for  the  moment  had  forgotten  everything  in  the 
sense  of  her  own  beauty.  If  that  state  of  mind  could  have 
lasted,  her  choice  would  have  been  to  have  Stephen  Guest  at 
her  feet,  offering  her  a  life  filled  with  all  luxuries,  with  daily 
incense  of  adoration  near  and  distant,  and  with  all  possibili- 
ties of  culture  at  her  command.  But  there  were  things  in  her 
stronger  than  vanity  —  passion,  and  affection,  and  long  deep 
memories  of  early  discipline  and  effort^  of  early  claims  on  her 

VOL.   II  80 


466  THE  MILL   ON  THE   FLOSS. 

love  and  pity ;  and  the  stream  of  vanity  was  soon  swept  along 
and  mingled  imperceptibly  with  that  wider  current  which  was 
at  its  highest  force  to-day,  under  the  double  urgency  of  the 
events  and  inward  impulses  brought  by  the  last  week. 

Philip  had  not  spoken  to  her  himself  about  the  removal  of 
obstacles  between  them  on  his  father's  side — he  shrank  from 
that ;  but  he  had  told  everything  to  Lucy,  with  the  hope  that 
Maggie,  being  informed  through  her,  might  give  him  some 
encouraging  sign  that  their  being  brought  thus  much  nearer 
to  each  other  was  a  happiness  to  her.  The  rush  of  conflicting 
feelings  was  too  great  for  Maggie  to  say  much  when  Lucy, 
with  a  face  breathing  playful  joy,  like  one  of  Correggio's 
cherubs,  poured  forth  her  triumphant  revelation;  and  Lucy 
could  hardly  be  surprised  that  she  could  do  little  more  than 
cry  with  gladness  at  the  thought  of  her  father's  wish  being 
fulfilled,  and  of  Tom's  getting  the  Mill  again  in  reward  for 
all  his  hard  striving.  The  details  of  preparation  for  the 
bazaar  had  then  come  to  usurp  Lucy's  attention  for  the  next 
few  days,  and  nothing  had  been  said  by  the  cousins  on  sub- 
jects that  were  likely  to  rouse  deeper  feelings.  Philip  had 
been  to  the  house  more  than  once,  but  Maggie  had  had  no 
private  conversation  with  him,  and  thus  she  had  been  left  to 
fight  her  inward  battle  without  interference. 

But  when  the  bazaar  was  fairly  ended,  and  the  cousins  were 
alone  again,  resting  together  at  home,  Lucy  said  — 

"You  must  give  up  going  to  stay  with  your  aunt  Moss  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  Maggie  :  write  a  note  to  her,  and  tell  her 
you  have  put  it  off  at  my  request,  and  I  '11  send  the  man  with 
it.  She  won't  be  displeased ;  you  '11  have  plenty  of  time  to 
go  by-and-by ;  and  I  don't  want  you  to  go  out  of  the  way  just 
now." 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  must  go,  dear ;  I  can't  put  it  off.  I  would  n't 
leave  aunt  Gritty  out  for  the  world.  And  I  shall  have  very 
little  time,  for  I  'm  going  away  to  a  new  situation  on  the  25th 
of  June." 

"  Maggie  !  "  said  Lucy,  almost  white  with  astonishment. 

"I  did  n't  tell  you,  dear,"  said  Maggie,  making  a  great  effort 
to   command  herself,  "because   you've   been   so   busy.     But 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  467 

some  time  ago  I  wrote  to  our  old  governess,  Miss  Firniss,  to 
ask  her  to  let  me  kuow  if  she  met  with  iiny  situation  that  i 
could  fill,  and  the  other  day  I  had  a  letter  from  her  telling 
me  that  I  could  take  three  orphan  pupils  of  hers  to  the  coast 
during  the  holidays,  and  then  make  trial  of  a  situation  with 
her  as  teacher.     I  wrote  yesterday  to  accept  the  offer," 

Lucy  felt  so  hurt  that  for  some  moments  she  was  unable  to 
speak. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said  at  last,  "  how  could  you  be  so  unkind  to 
me  —  not  to  tell  me  —  to  take  such  a  step  —  and  now  ! "  She 
hesitated  a  little,  and  then  added  —  "  And  Philip  ?  I  thought 
everything  was  going  to  be  so  happy.  Oh  Maggie  —  what  is 
the  reason  ?  Give  it  up ;  let  me  write.  There  is  nothing  now 
to  keep  you  and  Philip  apart." 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  faintly.  "  There  is  Tom's  feeling. 
He  said  I  must  give  him  up  if  I  married  Philip.  And  I  know 
he  will  not  change  —  at  least  not  for  a  long  while  —  unless 
something  happened  to  soften  him." 

"  But  I  will  talk  to  him :  he 's  coming  back  this  week.  And 
this  good  news  about  the  Mill  will  soften  him.  And  I  '11  talk 
to  him  about  Philip.  Tom 's  always  very  compliant  to  me :  I 
don't  think  he 's  so  obstinate." 

"  But  I  must  go,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  distressed  voice.  "  I 
must  leave  some  time  to  pass.  Don't  press  me  to  stay,  dear 
Lucy." 

Lucy  was  silent  for  two  or  three  minutes,  looking  away  and 
ruminating.  At  length  she  knelt  down  by  her  cousin,  and, 
looking  up  in  her  face  with  anxious  seriousness,  said  — 

"  Maggie,  is  it  that  you  don't  love  Philip  well  enough  to 
marry  him  ?  —  tell  me  —  trust  me." 

Maggie  held  Lucy's  hands  tightly  in  silence  a  little  while. 
Her  own  hands  were  quite  cold.  But  when  she  spoke,  her 
voice  was  quite  clear  and  distinct. 

"  Yes,  Lucy,  I  would  choose  to  marry  him.     I  think  it  would 

be  the  best  and  highest  lot  for  me  — to  make  his  life  happy. 

He  loved  me  first.     No  one  else  could  be  quite  what  he  is  to  me. 

But  I  can't  divide  myself  from  my  brother  for  life.     I  must  go 

I  away,  and  wait.     Pray  don't  speak  to  me  again  about  it." 


468  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

Lucy  obeyed  in  pain  and  wonder.  The  next  word  she  said 
was  — 

''  Well,  dear  Maggie,  at  least  you  will  go  to  the  dance  at 
Park  House  to-morrow,  and  have  some  music  and  brightness, 
before  you  go  to  pay  these  dull  dutiful  visits.  Ah  !  here  come 
aunty  and  the  tea." 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   SPELL   SEEMS    BROKEN. 

The  suite  of  rooms  opening  into  each  other  at  Park  House 
looked  duly  brilliant  with  lights  and  flowers  and  the  personal 
splendors  of  sixteen  couples,  with  attendant  parents  and  guard- 
ians. The  focus  of  brilliancy  was  the  long  drawing-room, 
where  the  dancing  went  forward,  under  the  inspiration  of  the 
grand  piano ;  the  library,  into  which  it  opened  at  one  end,  had 
the  more  sober  illumination  of  maturity,  with  caps  and  cards  ; 
and  at  the  other  end,  the  pretty  sitting-room  with  a  conserva- 
tory attached,  was  left  as  an  occasional  cool  retreat.  Lucy,  who 
had  laid  aside  her  black  for  the  first  time,  and  had  her  pretty 
slimness  set  off  by  an  abundant  dress  of  white  crape,  was  the 
acknowledged  queen  of  the  occasion  ;  for  this  was  one  of  the 
Miss  Guests'  thoroughly  condescending  parties,  including  no 
member  of  any  aristocracy  higher  than  that  of  St.  Ogg's,  and] 
stretching  to  the  extreme  limits  of  commercial  and  professional] 
gentility. 

Maggie  at  first  refused  to  dance,  saying  that  she  had  forgot-j 
ten  all  the  figures  —  it  was  so  many  years  since  she  had  danced! 
at  school ;  and  she  was  glad  to  have  that  excuse,  for  it  is  ill  I 
dancing  with  a  heavy  heart.     But  at  length  the  music  wrought! 
in  her  young  limbs,  and  the  longing  came  ;  even  though  it  was! 
the  horrible  young  Torry,  who  walked  up  a  second  time  to  try 
and  persuade  her.     She  warned  him  that  she  could  not  dance  I 
anything  but  a  country-dance  ;  but  he,  of  course,  was  willing 
to  wait  for  that  high  felicity,  meaning  only  to  be  complimentary 
when  he  assured  her  at  several  intervals  that  it  was  a  "great] 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  469 

bore  "that  she  couldn't  waltz -he  would  have  liked  so  much 
o  waltz  with  her.  But  at  last  it  was  the  turn  of  the  good  old 
fashioned  dance  which  has  the  least  of  vanity  and  the  most  of 
merriment  m  it,  and  Maggie  quite  forgot  her  troublous  life  in 
a  childlike  enjoyment  of  that  half-rustic  rhythnt  whi.-h  sccu.s 
to  banish  pretentious  etiquette.  She  felt  quite  charitably  to- 
wards young  Tony,  as  his  hand  bore  her  along  and  h.dd  her 
up  m  the  dance;  her  eyes  and  cheeks  had  that  fire  of  youn^r 
joy  m  them  which  will  flame  out  if  it  can  find  the  least  breath 
to  fan  It ;  and  her  simple  black  dress,  with  its  bit  of  black 
lace,  seemed  like  the  dim  setting  of  a  jewel 

Stephen  had  not  yet  asked  her  to  dance -had  not  yet  paid 
her  more  than  a  passing  civility.     Since  yesterday,  that  inward 
vision  of  her  which  perpetually  made  part  of  his  cousciousness 
had  been  half  screened  by  the  image  of  Philip  Wakem  which 
came  across  it  like  a  blot :  there  was  some  attachment  between 
her  and  Philip  ;  at  least  there  was  an  attachment  on  his  side 
which  made  her  feel  in  some  bondage.     Here  then,  Stephen 
told  himself,  was  another  claim  of  honor  which  called  on  him 
to  resist  the  attraction  that  was  continually  threatening  to 
overpower  him.     He  told  himself  so ;  and  yet  he  had  once  or 
twice  felt  a  certain  savage  resistance,  and  at  another  moment 
a  shuddering  repugnance,  to  this  intrusion  of  Philip's  image, 
which  almost  made  it  a  new  incitement  to  rush  towards  .Alaggie 
and  claim  her  for  himself.     Nevertheless  he  had  done  what  he 
meant  to  do  this  evening :  he  had  kept  aloof  from  her  ;  he  luul 
hardly  looked  at  her ;  and  he  had  been  gayly  assiduous  to  Lucy. 
But  now  his  eyes  were  devouring  Maggie  :  he  felt  inclined  to 
kick  young  Torry  out  of  the  dance,  and  take  his  place.     Then 
he  wanted  the  dance  to  end  that  he  might  get  rid  of  his  i)art- 
ner.     The  possibility  that  he  too  should  dance  with  I\raggie, 
and  have  her  hand  in  his  so  long,  was  beginning  to  possess  him 
like  a  thirst.     But  even  now  their  hands  were  meeting  in  the 
dance  —  were  meeting  still  to  the  very  end  of  it,  though  they 
were  far  off  each  other. 

Stephen  hardly  knew  what  happened,  or  in  what  automatic 
way  he  got  through  the  duties  of  politeness  in  the  interval, 
until  he  was  free  and  saw  Maggie  seated  alone  again,  at  the 


470  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

farther  end  of  the  room.  He  made  his  way  towards  her  round 
the  couples  that  were  forming  for  the  waltz,  and  when  Maggie 
became  conscious  that  she  was  the  person  he  sought,  she  felt, 
in  spite  of  all  the  thoughts  that  had  gone  before,  a  glowing 
gladness  at  heart.  Her  eyes  and  cheeks  were  still  brightened 
with  her  childlike  enthusiasm  in  the  dance ;  her  whole  frame 
was  set  to  joy  and  tenderness ;  even  the  coming  pain  could 
not  seem  bitter  —  she  was  ready  to  welcome  it  as  a  part  of 
life,  for  life  at  this  moment  seemed  a  keen  vibrating  conscious- 
ness poised  above  pleasure  or  pain.  This  one,  this  last  night, 
she  might  expand  unrestrainedly  in  the  warmth  of  the  pres- 
ent, without  those  chill  eating  thoughts  of  the  past  and  the 
future. 

"  They  're  going  to  waltz  again,"  said  Stephen,  bending  to 
speak  to  her,  with  that  glance  and  tone  of  subdued  tenderness 
which  young  dreams  create  to  themselves  in  the  summer  woods 
when  low  cooing  voices  fill  the  air.  Such  glances  and  tones 
bring  the  breath  of  poetry  with  them  into  a  room  that  is  half 
stifling  with  glaring  gas  and  hard  flirtation. 

"  They  are  going  to  waltz  again :  it  is  rather  dizzy  work 
to  look  on,  and  the  room  is  very  warm.  Shall  we  walk  about 
a  little  ?  " 

He  took  her  hand  and  placed  it  within  his  arm,  and  they 
walked  on  into  the  sitting-room,  where  the  tables  were  strewn 
with  engravings  for  the  accommodation  of  visitors  who  would 
not  want  to  look  at  them.  But  no  visitors  were  here  at  this 
moment.     They  passed  on  into  the  conservatory. 

"  How  strange  and  unreal  the  trees  and  flowers  look  Avith 
the  lights  among  them  !  "  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  voice.     "  They'j 
look  as  if  they  belonged  to  an  enchanted  land,  and  woulc 
never   fade   away  :  —  I  could  fancy  they  were  all  made   ol 
jewels." 

She  was  looking  at  the  tier  of  geraniums  as  she  spoke,  anc 
Stephen  made  no  answer  :  but  he  was  looking  at  her  —  and| 
does  not  a  supreme  poet  blend  light  and  sound  into  one,  call-; 
ing  darkness  mute,  and  light  eloquent  ?  Something  strangelyl 
powerful  there  was  in  the  light  of  Stephen's  long  gaze,  fori 
it  made  Maggie's  face  turn  towards  it  and  look  upward  at  i% 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  471 

—  slowly,  like  a  flower  at  the  ascending  brightness.  And 
they  walked  unsteadily  on,  without  feeling  that  they  were 
walking  —  without  feeling  anything  but  that  long  grave  mu- 
tual gaze  which  has  the  solemnity  belonging  to  all  deep  luunau 
passion.  The  hovering  thought  that  they  must  and  would  re- 
nounce each  other  made  this  moment  of  mute  coufession  more 
intense  in  its  rapture. 

But  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  conservatory,  and  were 
obliged  to  pause  and  turn.  The  change  of  movement  brought 
a  new  consciousness  to  Maggie  :  she  blushed  deeply,  turned 
away  her  head,  and  drew  her  arm  from  Stephen's,  going  up  to 
some  flowers  to  smell  them.  Stephen  stood  motionless,  and 
fitill  pale. 

'^  Oh,  may  I  get  this  rose  ? "  said  Maggie,  making  a  great 
effort  to  say  something,  and  dissipate  the  burning  sense  of 
irretrievable  confession.  "  I  think  I  am  quite  wicked  with 
roses  —  I  like  to  gather  them  and  smell  them  till  they  have  no 
scent  left." 

Stephen  was  mute :  he  was  incapable  of  putting  a  sentence 
together,  and  Maggie  bent  her  arm  a  little  upward  towards  the 
large  half-opened  rose  that  had  attracted  her.  Who  has  not  felt 
the  beauty  of  a  woman's  arm  ?  —  the  unspeakable  suggestions 
of  tenderness  that  lie  in  the  dimpled  elbow,  and  all  the  varied 
gently  lessening  curves,  down  to  the  delicate  wrist,  with  its 
tiniest,  almost  imperceptible  nicks  in  the  firm  softness.  A  wo- 
man's arm  touched  the  soul  of  a  great  sculptor  two  thousand 
years  ago,  so  that  he  wrought  an  image  of  it  for  the  Parthe- 
non which  moves  us  still  as  it  clasps  lovingly  the  time-worn 
marble  of  a  headless  trunk.     Maggie's  was  such  an  arm  as  that 

—  and  it  had  the  warm  tints  of  life. 

A  mad  impulse  seized  on  Stephen ;  he  darted  towards  the 
arm,  and  showered  kisses  on  it,  clasping  the  wrist. 

But  the  next  moment  Maggie  snatched  it  from  him.  and 
glared  at  him  like  a  wounded  war-goddess,  quivering  with 
rage  and  humiliation. 

"How  dare  you?" — she  spoke  in  a  deeply  shaken  half- 
smothered  voice.  "What  right  have  I  given  you  to  insult 
me?'' 


472  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

She  darted  from  him  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  threw 
herself  on  the  sofa,  panting  and  trembling. 

A  horrible  punishment  was  come  upon  her  for  the  sin  of 
allowing  a  moment's  happiness  that  was  treachery  to  Lucy,  to 
Philip — to  her  own  better  soul.  That  momentary  happiness 
had  been  smitten  with  a  blight  —  a  leprosy  :  Stephen  thought 
more  lightly  of  her  than  he  did  of  Lucy. 

As  for  Stephen,  he  leaned  back  against  the  framework  of 
the  conservatory,  dizzy  with  the  conflict  of  passions — love, 
rage,  and  confused  despair  :  despair  at  his  want  of  self-mastery, 
and  despair  that  he  had  offended  Maggie. 

The  last  feeling  surmounted  every  other :  to  be  by  her  side 
again  and  entreat  forgiveness  was  the  only  thing  that  had  the 
force  of  a  motive  for  him,  and  she  had  not  been  seated  more 
than  a  few  minutes  when  he  came  and  stood  humbly  before 
her.     But  Maggie's  bitter  rage  was  unspent. 

"  Leave  me  to  myself,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  with  impetuous 
haughtiness,  "  and  for  the  future  avoid  me." 

Stephen  turned  away,  and  walked  backwards  and  forwards 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  There  was  the  dire  necessity  of 
going  back  into  the  dancing-room  again,  and  he  was  beginning 
to  be  conscious  of  that.  They  had  been  absent  so  short  a 
time,  that  when  he  went  in  again  the  waltz  was  not  ended. 

Maggie,  too,  was  not  long  before  she  re-entered.  All  the 
pride  of  her  nature  was  stung  into  activity  :  the  hateful  weak- 
ness which  had  dragged  her  within  reach  of  this  wound  to  her 
self-respect,  had  at  least  wrought  its  own  cure.  The  thoughts 
and  temptations  of  the  last  month  should  all  be  flung  away 
into  an  un visited  chamber  of  memory  :  there  was  nothing  to 
allure  her  now  ;  duty  would  be  easy,  and  all  the  old  calm  pur- 
poses would  reign  peacefully  once  more.  She  re-entered  the 
drawing-room  still  with  some  excited  brightness  in  her  face, 
but  with  a  sense  of  proud  self-command  that  defied  anything 
to  agitate  her.  She  refused  to  dance  again,  but  she  talked 
quite  readily  and  calmly  with  every  one  who  addressed  her. 
And  when  they  got  home  that  night,  she  kissed  Lucy  with  a 
free  heart,  almost  exulting  in  this  scorching  moment,  which 
had  delivered  her  from  the  possibility  of  another  word  or  look 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  473 

fhat  would  have  the  stamp  of  treachery  towards  that  gentle, 
unsuspicious  sister. 

The  next  morning  Maggie  did  not  set  off  to  Basset  quite  so 
soon  as  she  had  expected.  Her  mother  was  to  accompany 
her  in  the  carriage,  and  household  business  could  not  W  de- 
spatched hastily  by  Mrs.  Tulliver.  So  Maggie,  who  had  been 
in  a  hurry  to  prepare  herself,  had  to  sit  waiting,  equipped  for 
the  drive,  in  the  garden.  Lucy  was  busy  in  the  house  wrap- 
ping up  some  bazaar  presents  for  the  younger  ones  at  Basset, 
and  when  there  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  door-bell,  Maggie  felt 
some  alarm  lest  Lucy  should  bring  out  Stephen  to  her :  it  was 
sure  to  be  Stephen. 

But  presently  the  visitor  came  out  into  the  garden  alone, 
and  seated  himself  by  her  on  the  garden-chair.  It  was  not 
Stephen. 

"  We  can  just  catch  the  tips  of  the  Scotch  firs,  Maggie,  from 
this  seat,"  said  Philip. 

They  had  taken  each  other's  hands  in  silence,  but  Maggie 
had  looked  at  him  with  a  more  complete  revival  of  the  old 
childlike  affectionate  smile  that  he  had  seen  before,  and  he 
felt  encouraged. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  often  look  at  them,  and  wish  I  could  see 
the  low  sunlight  on  the  stems  again.  But  I  have  never  been 
that  way  but  once  —  to  the  church-yard,  with  my  mother." 

''  I  have  been  there  —  I  go  there  —  continually,"  said  Philip. 
"  I  have  nothing  but  the  past  to  live  upon." 

A  keen  remembrance  and  keen  pity  impelled  Maggie  to 
put  her  hand  in  Philip's.  They  had  so  often  walked  hand  in 
hand  ! 

"  I  remember  all  the  spots,"  she  said  —  "  just  where  you 
told  me  of  particular  things  —  beautiful  stories  tliat  I  had 
never  heard  of  before." 

"You  will  go  there  again  soon  —  won't  you,  Maggie  ?  "  said 
Philip,  getting  timid.  "  The  Mill  will  soon  be  your  brother's 
home  again." 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  shall  not  be  there,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  shall  only 
hear  of  that  happiness.  I  am  going  away  again  —  Lucy  haa 
not  told  you,  perhaps  ?  " 


474  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS- 

"  Then  the  future  will  never  join  on  to  the  past  again,  Mag- 
gie ?     That  book  is  quite  closed  ?  " 

The  gray  eyes  that  had  so  often  looked  up  at  her  with  en- 
treating worship,  looked  up  at  her  now,  with  a  last  struggling 
ray  of  hope  in  them,  and  Maggie  met  them  with  her  large  sin- 
cere gaze. 

<'That  book  never  will  be  closed,  Philip,"  she  said,  with 
grave  sadness  ;  "  I  desire  no  future  that  will  break  the  ties  of 
the  past.  But  the  tie  to  my  brother  is  one  of  the  strongest. 
I  can  do  nothing  willingly  that  will  divide  me  always  from 
him." 

"  Is  that  the  only  reason  that  would  keep  us  apart  forever, 
Maggie  ? "  said  Philip,  with  a  desperate  determination  to 
have  a  definite  auswer. 

"  The  only  reason,"  said  Maggie,  with  calm  decision.  And 
she  believed  it.  At  that  moment  she  felt  as  if  the  enchanted 
cup  had  been  dashed  to  the  ground.  The  reactionary  excite- 
ment that  gave  her  a  proud  self-mastery  had  not  subsided,  and 
she  looked  at  the  future  with  a  sense  of  calm  choice. 

They  sat  hand  in  hand  without  looking  at  each  other  or 
speaking  for  a  few  minutes :  in  Maggie's  mind  the  first  scenes 
of  love  and  parting  were  more  present  than  the  actual  mo- 
ment, and  she  was  looking  at  Philip  in  the  Red  Deeps. 

Philip  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  been  thoroughly  happy 
in  that  answer  of  hers  :  she  was  as  open  and  transparent  as  a 
rock-pool.  Why  was  he  not  thoroughly  happy  ?  Jealousy  is 
never  satisfied  with  anything  short  of  an  omniscience  that 
would  detect  the  subtlest  fold  of  the  heart. 


CHAPTER  XL 

IN    THE    LANE. 


Maggie  had  been  four  days  at  her  aunt  Moss's,  giving  the 
early  June  sunshine  quite  anew  brightness  in  the  care-dimmed 
eyes  of  that  affectionate  woman,  and  making  an  epoch  for  her 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.      •  475 

cousins  great  and  small,  who  were  learning  her  words  and 
actions  by  heart,  as  if  she  had  been  a  transient  avatar  of 
perfect  wisdom  and  beauty. 

She  was  standing  on  the  causeway  with  her  aunt  and  a 
group  of  cousins  feeding  the  chickens,  at  that  quiet  moment 
in  the  life  of  the  farmyard  before  the  afternoon  milking-time. 
The  great  buildings  round  the  hollow  yard  were  as  dreary  and 
tumble-down  as  ever,  but  over  the  old  garden-wall  the  straggling 
rose-bushes  were  beginning  to  toss  their  summer  weight,  and 
the  gray  wood  and  old  bricks  of  the  house,  on  its  higher  level, 
had  a  look  of  sleepy  age  in  the  broad  afternoon  sunlight,  that 
suited  the  quiescent  time.  Maggie,  with  her  bonnet  over  her 
arm,  was  smiling  down  at  the  hatch  of  small  tiulf}^  chickens, 
when  her  aunt  exclaimed  — 

"  Goodness  me  !  who  is  that  gentleman  coming  in  at  the 
gate  ?  " 

It  was  a  gentleman  on  a  tall  bay  horse ;  and  the  flanks  and 
neck  of  the  horse  were  streaked  black  with  fast  riding.  Mag- 
gie felt  a  beating  at  head  and  heart  —  horrible  as  the  sudden 
leaping  to  life  of  a  savage  enemy  who  had  feigned  death. 

"  Who  is  it,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Moss,  seeing  in  Maggie's 
face  the  evidence  that  she  knew. 

"It  is  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,"  said  Maggie,  rather  faintly. 
"My  cousin  Lucy's  —  a  gentleman  who  is  very  intimate  at 
my  cousin's." 

Stephen  was  already  close  to  them,  had  jumped  off  his 
horse,  and  now  raised  his  hat  as  he  advanced. 

"  Hold  the  horse,  Willy,"  said  Mrs.  Moss  to  the  twelve-year- 
old  boy. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  pulling  at  the  horse's  im- 
patiently tossing  head.  "  I  must  be  going  again  immediately. 
I  have  a  message  to  deliver  to  you.  Miss  Tulliver  — on  private 
business.     May  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  to  walk  a  few 

yards  with  me  ?  " 

He  had  a  half-jaded,  half-irritated  look,  such  as  a  man  gets 
when  he  has  been  dogged  by  some  care  or  annoyance  that 
makes  his  bed  and  his  dinner  of  little  use  to  him.  He  spoke 
almost  abruptly,  as  if  his  errand  were  too  pressing  for  him  to 


476  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

trouble  himself  about  what  would  be  thought  by  Mrs.  Moss  of 
his  visit  and  request.  Good  Mrs.  Moss,  rather  nervous  in  the 
presence  of  this  apparently  haughty  gentleman,  was  inwardly 
wondering  whether  she  would  be  doing  right  or  wrong  to  in- 
vite him  again  to  leave  his  horse  and  walk  in,  when  Maggie, 
feeling  all  the  embarrassment  of  the  situation,  and  unable  to 
say  anything,  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  turned  to  walk  towards 
the  gate. 

Stephen  turned  too,  and  walked  by  her  side,  leading  his 
horse. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  till  they  were  out  in  the  lane,  and 
had  walked  four  or  five  yards,  when  Maggie,  who  had  been 
looking  straight  before  her  all  the  while,  turned  again  to  walk 
back,  saying,  with  haughty  resentment  — 

"  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  go  any  farther.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  consider  it  gentlemanly  and  delicate  conduct  to 
place  me  in  a  position  that  forced  me  to  come  out  with  you  — 
or  whether  you  wished  to  insult  me  still  further  by  thrusting 
an  interview  upon  me  in  this  way." 

"  Of  course  you  are  angry  with  me  for  coming,"  said  Ste- 
phen, bitterly.  "  Of  course  it  is  of  no  consequence  what  a 
man  has  to  suffer  —  it  is  only  your  woman's  dignity  that  you 
care  about." 

Maggie  gave  a  slight  start,  such  as  might  have  come  from 
the  slightest  possible  electric  shock. 

"  As  if  it  were  not  enough  that  I  'm  entangled  in  this  way 
—  that  I  'm  mad  with  love  for  you  —  that  I  resist  the  strong- 
est passion  a  man  can  feel,  because  I  try  to  be  true  to  other 
claims  —  but  you  must  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  coarse  brute, 
who  would  willingly  offend  you.  And  when,  if  I  had  my  own 
choice,  I  should  ask  you  to  take  my  hand,  and  my  fortune,  and 
my  whole  life,  and  do  what  you  liked  with  them  !  I  know  I 
forgot  myself.  I  took  an  unwarrantable  liberty.  I  hate  my- 
self for  having  done  it.  But  I  repented  immediately  —  I  've 
been  repenting  ever  since.  You  ought  not  to  think  it  unpar- 
donable :  a  man  who  loves  with  his  whole  soul,  as  I  do  you,  is 
liable  to  be  mastered  by  his  feelings  for  a  moment ;  but  you 
know  —  you  must  believe  —  that  the  worst  pain  I  could  have 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  477 

is  to  have  pained  you  —  that  I  would  give  the  worhl  to  recall 
the  error." 

Maggie  dared  not  speak  —  dared  not  turn  her  head.  The 
strength  that  had  come  from  resentment  was  all  gone,  and  lier 
lips  were  quivering  visibly.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to 
utter  the  full  forgiveness  that  rose  in  answer  to  that  con- 
fession. 

They  were  come  nearly  in  front  of  the  gate  again,  and  she 
paused,  trembling. 

"  You  must  not  say  these  things  —  T  must  not  hear  them,** 
she  said,  looking  down  in  misery,  as  Stephen  came  in  front 
of  her,  to  prevent  her  from  going  farther  towards  the  gate. 
"  I  'm  very  sorry  for  any  pain  you  have  to  go  through ;  but 
it  is  of  no  use  to  speak." 

"  Yes,  it  is  of  use,"  said  Stephen,  impetuously.  "  It  would 
be  of  use  if  you  would  treat  me  with  some  sort  of  pity  and 
consideration,  instead  of  doing  me  vile  injustice  in  your  mind. 
I  could  bear  everything  more  quietly  if  I  knew  you  did  n't 
hate  me  for  an  insolent  coxcomb.  Look  at  me  —  see  what  a 
hunted  devil  I  am :  I  've  been  riding  thirty  miles  every  day 
to  get  away  from  the  thought  of  you." 

Maggie  did  not  —  dared  not  look.  She  had  already  seen 
the  harassed  face.     But  she  said,  gently  — 

"  I  don't  think  any  evil  of  you." 

"Then,  dearest,  look  at  me,"  said  Stephen,  in  deepest,  ten- 
derest  tones  of  entreaty.  "  Don't  go  away  from  me  yet.  Give 
me  a  moment's  happiness  —  make  me  feel  you  've  forgiven 
me." 

"Yes,  I  do  forgive  you,"  said  Maggie,  shaken  by  those 
tones,  and  all  the  more  frightened  at  herself.  "  But  pray  let 
me  go  in  again.     Pray  go  away." 

A  great  tear  fell  from  under  her  lowered  eyelids. 

"  I  can't  go  away  from  you  —  I  can't  leave  you,"  said  Ste- 
phen, with  still  more  passionate  pleading.  "  I  shall  come  back 
again  if  you  send  me  away  with  this  coldness  —  I  can't  answer 
for  myself.  But  if  you  will  go  with  me  only  a  little  way,  1 
can  live  on  that.  You  see  plairdy  enough  that  your  anger  luia 
only  made  me  ten  times  more  unreasonable." 


478  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Maggie  turned.  But  Tancred,  the  bay  horse,  began  to  make 
such  spirited  remoustrances  against  this  frequent  change  of 
direction,  that  Stephen,  catching  sight  of  Willy  Moss  peeping 
through  the  gate,  called  out,  ''Here!  just  come  and  hold  my 
horse  for  five  minutes." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Maggie,  hurriedly,  "  my  aunt  will  think  it  so 
strange." 

"  Never  mind,"  Stephen  answered,  impatiently  ;  "  they  don't 
know  the  people  at  St.  Ogg's.  Lead  him  up  and  down  just 
here,  for  five  minutes,"  he  added  to  Willy,  who  was  now  close 
to  them ;  and  then  he  turned  to  Maggie's  side,  atid  they 
walked  on.     It  was  clear  that  she  jnust  go  on  now. 

''  Take  my  arm,"  said  Stephen,  entreatingiy  ;  and  she  took 
it,  feeling  all  the  while  as  if  she  were  sliding  downwards  in 
a  nightmare. 

"  There  is  no  end  to  this  misery,"  she  began,  struggling  to 
repel  the  influence  by  speech.  "It  is  wicked  —  base — ever 
allowing  a  word  or  look  that  Lucy  —  that  others  might  not 
have  seen.     Think  of  Lucy." 

"I  do  think  of  her — bless  her.  If  I  didn't  —  "  Stephen 
had  laid  his  hand  on  Maggie's  that  rested  on  his  arm,  and  they 
both  felt  it  difhcult  to  speak. 

"And  I  have  other  ties,"  Maggie  went  on,  at  last,  with  a 
desperate  effort,  —  "  even  if  Lucy  did  not  exist." 

"  You  are  engaged  to  Philip  Wakem  ?  "  said  Stephen,  hastily. 
« Is  it  so  ?  " 

"  I  consider  myself  engaged  to  him  —  I  don't  mean  to  marry 
any  one  else." 

Steplien  was  silent  again  until  they  had  turned  out  of  the 
sun  into  a  side  lane,  all  grassy  and  sheltered.  Then  he  burst 
out  impetuously  — 

"  It  is  unnatural  —  it  is  horrible.  Maggie,  if  you  loved  me 
as  I  love  you.  we  should  throw  everything  else  to  the  winds 
for  the  sake  of  belonging  to  each  other.  We  should  break  all 
these  mistaken  ties  that  were  made  in  blindness,  and  determine 
to  marry  each  other." 

•'I  would  rather  die  than  fall  into  that  temptation,"  said 
Maggie,  with  deep,  slow  distinctness  —  all  the  gathered  spirit- 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  479 

ual  force  of  painful  years  coming  to  her  aiil  in  thifi  extroniity. 
She  drew  her  arm  from  his  as  she  spoke. 

''  Tell  me,  then,  that  you  don't  care  for  me,"  he  said,  almost 
x-iolently.     "  Tell  me  that  you  love  some  one  else  better." 

It  darted  through  IMaggie's  mind  that  here  was  a  mode  of 
releasing  herself  from  outward  struggl-  —  to  tell  Stephen  that 
her  whole  heart  was  Philip's.  But  her  lips  would  not  utter 
that,  and  she  was  silent. 

"If  you  do  love  me,  dearest,''  said  Stephen,  gently,  taking 
up  her  hand  again  and  laying  it  within  his  arm,  "  it  is  better 
—  it  is  right  that  we  should  marry  each  other.  We  can't  lielp 
the  pain  it  will  give.  It  is  come  upon  us  without  our  seeking: 
it  is  natural  —  it  has  taken  hold  of  me  in  spite  of  every  effort 
I  have  made  to  resist  it.  God  knows,  I  've  been  trying  to 
be  faithful  to  tacit  engagements,  and  I  've  only  made  things 
worse  —  I  'd  better  have  given  way  at  first." 

Maggie  was  silent.  If  it  were  not  wrong  —  if  she  were 
once  convinced  of  that,  and  need  no  longer  beat  and  struggle 
against  this  current,  soft  and  yet  strong  as  the  summer 
stream  ! 

"Say  'yes,'  dearest,"  said  Stephen,  leaning  to  look  entreat- 
ingly  in  her  face.  "  What  could  we  care  about  in  the  whole 
world  beside,  if  we  belonged  to  each  other  ?  " 

Her  breath  was  on  his  face  —  his  lips  were  very  near  hers  — 
but  there  was  a  great  dread  dwelling  in  his  love  for  her. 

Her  lips  and  eyelids  quivered ;  she  opened  her  eyes  full  on 
his  for  an  instant,  like  a  lovely  wild  animal  timid  and  strug- 
gling under  caresses,  and  then  turned  sharp  round  towards 
home  again. 

"  And  after  all,"  he  went  on,  in  an  impatient  tone,  trying  to 
defeat  his  own  scruples  as  well  as  hers,  "  I  am  breaking  no 
positive  engagement :  if  Lucy's  affections  had  been  withdrawn 
from  me  and  given  to  some  one  else,  I  should  have  felt  no 
right  to  assert  a  claim  on  her.  If  you  arc  not  abs(jlutely 
pledged  to  Philip,  we  are  neither  of  us  bound." 

"You  don't  believe  that  —  it  is  not  your  real  feeling,"  said 
Maggie,  earnestly.  "You  feel,  as  I  do,  that  the  real  tie  lies  in 
the  feelings  and  expectations  we  have  raised  in  other  mintls. 


480  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Else  all  pledges  might  be  broken,  when  there  was  no  outward 
penalty.     There  would  be  no  such  thing  as  faithfulness." 

Stephen  was  silent :  he  could  not  pursue  that  argument  j 
the  opposite  conviction  had  wrought  in  him  too  strongly- 
through  his  previous  time  of  struggle.  But  it  soon  presented 
itself  in  a  new  form. 

"The  pledge  canH  be  fulfilled,"  he  said,  with  impetuous  in- 
sistance.  "  It  is  unnatural :  we  can  only  pretend  to  give  our- 
selves to  any  one  else.  There  is  wrong  in  that  too  —  there 
may  be  misery  in  it  for  them  as  well  as  for  us.  Maggie,  you 
must  see  that  —  you  do  see  that." 

He  was  looking  eagerly  at  her  face  for  the  least  sign  of 
compliance  ;  his  large,  firm,  gentle  grasp  was  on  her  hand. 
She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground ;  then  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  said,  looking  up  at 
him  with  solemn  sadness  — 

"  Oh,  it  is  difficult  —  life  is  very  difficult !  It  seems  right 
to  me  sometimes  that  we  should  follow  our  strongest  feeling ; 
—  but  then,  such  feelings  continually  come  across  the  ties  that 
all  our  former  life  has  made  for  us  —  the  ties  that  have  made 
others  dependent  on  us  —  and  would  cut  them  in  two.  If  life 
were  quite  easy  and  simple,  as  it  might  have  been  in  Paradise, 
and  we  could  always  see  that  one  being  first  towards  whom  .  .  . 
I  mean,  if  life  did  not  make  duties  for  us  before  love  comes, 
love  would  be  a  sign  that  two  people  ought  to  belong  to  each 
other.  But  I  see  —  I  feel  it  is  not  so  now  :  there  are  things 
we  must  renounce  in  life ;  some  of  us  must  resign  love.  Many 
things  are  difficult  and  dark  to  me ;  but  I  see  one  thing  quite 
clearly  —  that  I  must  not,  cannot,  seek  my  own  happiness  by 
sacrificing  others.  Love  is  natural ;  but  surely  pity  and  faith- 
fulness and  memory  are  natural  too.  And  they  would  live  in 
me  still,  and  punish  me  if  I  did  not  obey  them.  I  should  be 
haunted  by  the  suffering  I  had  caused.  Our  love  would  be 
poisoned.  Don't  urge  me  ;  help  me  —  help  me,  because  I  love 
you." 

Maggie  had  become  more  and  more  earnest  as  she  went  on ; 
her  face  had  become  flushed,  and  her  eyes  fuller  and  fuller  of 
appealing  love.    Stephen  had  the  fibre  of  nobleness  in  him  that 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  481 

vibrated  to  lier  appeal :  but  in  the  same  moment  —  how  could 
it  be  otherwise?  —  that  pleading  beauty  gained  new  power 
over  him. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  in  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper,  while 
his  arm  stole  round  her,  " I '11  do,  I  '11  bear  anything  30U  wish. 
But  —  one  kiss  —  one  —  the  last  —  before  we  part." 

One  kiss  —  and  then  a  long  look  —  until  Maggie  said  tremu- 
lously, "  Let  me  go  —  let  us  make  haste  back." 

She  hurried  along,  and  not  another  w^ord  was  spoken. 
Stephen  stood  still  and  beckoned  when  they  came  within  sight 
of  Willy  and  the  horse,  and  Maggie  went  on  through  the  gate. 
Mrs.  Moss  was  standing  alone  at  the  door  of  the  old  porch  : 
she  had  sent  all  the  cousins  in,  with  kind  thoughtfulness.  It 
might  be  a  joyful  thing  that  Maggie  had  a  rich  and  handsome 
lover,  but  she  would  naturally  feel  embarrassed  at  coming  in 
again  :  —  and  it  might  not  be  joyful.  In  either  case,  Mrs.  Moss 
waited  anxiously  to  receive  Maggie  by  herself.  The  speaking 
face  told  plainly  enough  that,  if  there  was  joy,  it  was  of  a  very 
agitating,  dubious  sort. 

"  Sit  down  here  a  bit,  my  dear."  She  drew  Maggie  into  the 
porch,  and  sat  down  on  the  bench  by  her;  —  there  was  no 
privacy  in  the  house. 

"  Oh,  aunt  Gritty,  I  'm  very  wretched.  I  wish  I  could  have 
died  when  I  was  fifteen.  It  seemed  so  easy  to  give  things  up 
then  —  it  is  so  hard  now." 

The  poor  child  threw  her  arms  round  her  aunt's  neck,  and 
fell  into  long,  deep  sobs. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   FAMILY   PARTY. 


Maggie  left  her  good  aunt  Gritty  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
and  went  to  Garum  Firs  to  pay  her  visit  to  aunt  Pullet  accord- 
ing to  agreement.  In  the  mean  time  very  unexpected  things 
had  happened,  and  there  was  to  be  a  family  party  at  Garum 

VOT-.    II.  81- 


482  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

to  discuss  and  celebrate  a  change  in  the  fortunes  of  the  Tul- 
livers,  which  was  likely  finally  to  carry  away  the  shadow  of 
their  demerits  like  the  last  limb  of  an  eclipse,  and  cause  their 
hitherto  obscured  virtues  to  shine  forth  in  full-rounded  splen- 
dor. It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  a  new  ministry  just  come 
into  office  are  not  the  only  fellow-men  who  enjoy  a  period  of 
high  appreciation  and  full-blown  eulogy  :  in  many  respectable 
families  throughout  this  realm,  relatives  becoming  creditable 
meet  with  a  similar  cordiality  of  recognition,  which,  in  its  fine 
freedom  from  the  coercion  of  any  antecedents,  suggests  the 
hopeful  possibility  that  we  may  some  day  without  any  notice 
find  ourselves  iti  full  millennium,  with  cockatrices  who  have 
ceased  to  bite,  and  wolves  that  no  longer  show  their  teeth  with 
any  but  the  blandest  intentions. 

Lucy  came  so  early  as  to  have  the  start  even  of  aunt  Glegg ; 
for  she  longed  to  have  some  undisturbed  talk  with  Maggie 
about  the  wonderful  news.  It  seemed  —  did  it  not  ?  said 
Lucy,  with  her  prettiest  air  of  wisdom  —  as  if  everything, 
even  other  people's  misfortunes  (poor  creatures !)  were  con- 
spiring now  to  make  pool"  dear  aunt  Tulliver,  and  cousin  Tom, 
and  naughty  Maggie  too,  if  she  were  not  obstinately  bent  on 
the  contrary,  as  happy  as  they  deserved  to  be  after  all  their 
troubles.  To  think  that  the  very  day — the  very  day  —  after 
Tom  had  come  back  from  Newcastle,  that  unfortunate  young 
Jetsome,  whom  Mr.  Wakem  had  placed  at  the  Mill,  had  been 
pitched  off  his  horse  in  a  drunken  fit,  and  was  lying  at  St. 
Ogg's  in  a  dangerous  state,  so  that  Wakem  had  signified  his 
wish  that  the  new  purchasers  should  enter  on  the  premises  at 
once !  It  was  very  dreadful  for  that  unhapp}^  young  man, 
but  it  did  seem  as  if  the  misfortune  had  happened  then, 
rather  than  at  any  other  time,  in  order  that  cousin  Tom  might 
all  the  sooner  have  tbe  fit  reward  of  his  exemplary  conduct  — 
papa  thought  so  very  highly  of  him.  Aunt  Tulliver  must 
certainly  go  to  the  Mill  now,  and  keep  house  for  Tom:  that 
Was  rather  a  loss  to  Luc}^  in  the  matter  of  household  comfort; 
but  then,  to  think  of  poor  aunty  being  in  her  old  place  again, 
and  gradually  getting  comforts  about  her  there  ! 

On  this  last  point  LuCy  had  hfel-  dunning  ptojects,  and  when 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  488 

she  and  Maggie  had  made  thpir  dangerous  way  down  the 
bright  stairs  into  the  handsome  parlor,  where  the  very  sun- 
beams seemed  cleaner  than  elsewhere,  she  directed  her  ma- 
noeuvres, as  any  other  great  tactician  would  have  done,  against 
the  weaker  side  of  the  enemy. 

"Aunt  Pullet,"  she  said,  seating  herself  on  the  sofa,  and 
caressingly  adjusting  that  lady's  floating  cap-string,  "  I  want 
you  to  make  up  your  mind  what  linen  and  things  you  will 
give  Tom  towards  housekeeping ;  because  you  are  always  so 
generous  —  you  give  such  nice  things,  you  know  ;  and  if  you 
set  the  example,  aunt  Glegg  will  follow." 

"That  she  never  can,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  with 
unusual  vigor,  "  for  she  has  n't  got  the  linen  to  follow  suit  wi' 
mine,  I  can  tell  you.  She  'd  niver  the  taste,  not  if  she  'd 
spend  the  money.  Big  checks  and  live  things,  like  stags  and 
foxes,  all  her  table-linen  is  —  not  a  spot  nor  a  diamont  among 
"em.  But  it 's  poor  work,  dividing  one's  linen  before  one  dies 
—  I  niver  thought  to  ha'  done  that,  Bessy,"  Mrs.  Pullet  con- 
tinued, shaking  her  head  and  looking  at  her  sister  Tulliver, 
"when  you  and  me  chose  the  double  diamont,  the  first  flax 
iver  we  'd  spun  —  and  the  Lord  knows  where  yours  is  gone." 

"  I  'd  no  choice,  I  'm  sure,  sister,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
accustomed  to  consider  herself  in  the  light  of  an  accused 
person.  "  I  'm  sure  it  was  no  wish  o'  mine,  iver,  as  I  should 
lie  awake  o'  nights  thinking  o'  my  best  bleached  linen  all 
over  the  country." 

"  Take  a  peppermint,  Mrs.  Tulliver,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  feel- 
ing that  he  was  offering  a  cheap  and  wholesome  form  of  com- 
fort, which  he  was  recommending  by  example. 

"Oh  but,  aunt  Pullet,"  said  Lucy,  "you've  so  much  beau- 
tiful linen.  And  suppose  you  had  had  daughters  I  Then  you 
must  have  divided  it  when  they  were  married." 

"Well,  I  don't  say  as  I  won't  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "for 
now  Tom's  so  lucky,  it's  notliing  but  right  his  friends  should 
look  on  him  and  help  him.  There  's  the  table-cloths  I  bought 
at  your  sale,  Bessy ;  it  was  nothing  bwt  good-natur'  o'  me  to 
buy  'em,  for  they  've  been  lying  in  the  chest  ever  since.  But 
I'm  not  going  to  give  Maggie   any  more  o'  my  ludy  muslin 


484  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

and  tilings,  if  she 's  to  go  into  service  again,  when  she  might 
stay  and  keep  me  company,  and  do  mj  sewing  for  me,  if  she 
was  n't  wanted  at  her  brother's." 

"  Going  into  service,"  was  the  expression  by  which  the 
Dodson  mind  represented  to  itself  the  position  of  teacher  o.»- 
governess,  and  Maggie's  return  to  that  menial  condition,  no\r 
circumstances  offered  her  more  eligible  prospects,  was  likelj 
to  be  a  sore  point  with  all  her  relatives,  besides  Lucy.  Mag- 
gie in  her  crude  form,  with  her  hair  down  her  back,  and 
altogether  in  a  state  of  dubious  promise,  was  a  most  unde- 
sirable niece  ;  but  now  she  was  capable  of  being  at  once  orna- 
mental and  useful.  The  subject  was  revived  in  aunt  and 
uncle  Glegg's  presence,  over  the  tea  and  muffins. 

"Hegh,  hegh!"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  good-naturedly  patting 
Maggie  on  the  back,  "  nonsense,  nonsense  !  Don't  let  us  hear 
of  you  taking  a  place  again,  Maggie.  Why,  you  must  ha' 
picked  up  half-a-dozen  sweethearts  at  the  bazaar  :  is  n't  there 
one  of  'em  the  right  sort  of  article  ?     Come,  now  ?  " 

"Mr.  Glegg,"  said  his  wife,  with  that  shade  of  increased 
politeness  in  her  severity  which  she  always  put  on  with  her 
crisper  fronts,  "  you  '11  excuse  me,  but  you  're  far  too  light  for 
a  man  of  your  years.  It 's  respect  and  duty  to  her  aunts,  and 
the  rest  of  her  kin  as  are  so  good  to  her,  should  have  kept 
my  niece  from  fixing  about  going  away  again  without  con- 
sulting us  —  not  sweethearts,  if  I'm  to  use  such  a  word, 
though  it  was  never  beared  in  Tiiy  family." 

"Why,  what  did  they  call  us,  when  we  went  to  see  'em, 
then,  eh,  neighbor  Pullet  ?  They  thought  us  sweet  enough 
then,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  winking  pleasantly,  while  Mr.  Pullet, 
at  the  suggestion  of  sweetness,  took  a  little  more  sugar. 

"Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs,  G.,  "if  you're  going  to  be  un- 
delicate,  let  me  know." 

"  La,  Jane,  your  husband 's  only  joking,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet ; 
"  let  him  joke  while  he  's  got  health  and  strength.  There 's 
poor  Mr.  Tilt  got  his  mouth  drawn  all  o'  one  side,  and 
couldn't  laugh  if  he  was  to  try." 

"  I  '11  trouble  you  for  the  muffineer,  then,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said 
Mrs.    G.,    "  if  I  may   be  so   bold   to    interrupt   your   joking. 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  485 

Though  it's  other  people  must  see  the  joko  in  a  niece's  put- 
ting a  slight  ou  her  mother's  eldest  sister,  as  is  the  head  o' 
the  family  ;  and  only  coming  in  and  out  on  short  visits,  all 
the  time  she  's  been  in  the  town,  and  then  settling  to  go  away 
without  my  knowledge  —  as  I  'd  laid  caps  out  on  purpose  for 
her  to  make  'em  up  for  me,  —  and  me  as  have  divided  my 
money  so  equal  —  " 

"  Sister,"  Mrs.  Tulliver  broke  in,  anxiously,  "  I  'm  sure  Mag- 
gie never  thought  o'  going  away  without  staying  at  your  house 
as  well  as  the  others.  Not  as  it's  my  wish  she  should  go 
away  at  all  —  bvit  quite  contrairy,  I  'm  sure  I  'm  innocent. 
I've  said  over  and  over  again,  '  My  dear,  you've  no  call  to  go 
away.'  But  there 's  ten  days  or  a  fortnight  j\Iaggie  '11  have 
before  she  's  fixed  to  go :  she  can  stay  at  your  house  just  as 
well,  and  I  '11  step  in  when  I  can,  and  so  will  Lucy." 

"  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "  if  you  'd  exercise  a  little  more 
thought,  you  might  know  I  should  hardly  think  it  was  worth 
while  to  unpin  a  bed,  and  go  to  all  that  trouble  now,  just  at 
the  end  o'  the  time,  when  our  house  is  n't  above  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  walk  from  Mr.  Deane's.  She  can  come  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  and  go  back  the  last  at  night,  and  be 
thankful  she  's  got  a  good  aunt  so  close  to  her  to  come  and  sit 
with.     I  know  I  should,  when  I  was  her  age." 

"  La,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "  it  'ud  do  your  beds  good  to 
have  somebody  to  sleep  in  'em.  There  's  that  striped  room 
smells  dreadful  mouldy,  and  the  glass  mildewed  like  anytliing. 
I  'm  sure  I  thought  I  should  be  struck  with  death  when  you 
took  me  in." 

"  Oh,  there  is  Tom !  "  exclaimed  Lucy,  clapping  her  hands. 
''  He  's  come  on  Sinbad,  as  I  told  him.  I  was  afraid  he  was 
not  going  to  keep  his  promise." 

Maggie  jumped  up  to  kiss  Tom  as  he  entered,  with  strong 
feeling,  at  this  first  meeting  since  the  prospect  of  returning  to 
ithe  Mill  had  been  opened  to  him ;  and  slie  kept  his  hand,  lead- 
ing him  to  the  chair  by  her  side.  To  have  no  cloud  between 
herself  and  Tom  was  still  a  perpetual  yearning  in  her,  that  had 
tts  root  deeper  than  all  change.  He  smiled  at  her  very  kindly 
;his  evening,  and  said,  "  Well,  Magsie,  how 's  aunt  Moss  ?  " 


486  THE-  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"Come,  come,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  putting  out  Ins  hand. 
"  Why,  you  're  such  a  big  man,  you  carry  all  before  you,  it 
seems.  You  're  come  into  your  luck  a  good  deal  earlier  then 
us  old  folks  did  — but  I  wish  you  joy,  I  wish  you  joy.  You  '11 
get  the  Mill  all  for  your  own  again,  some  day,  I  '11  be  bound. 
You  won't  stop  half-way  up  the  hill." 

"  But  I  hope  he  '11  bear  in  mind  as  it 's  his  mother's  family 
as  he  owes  it  to,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  If  he  had  n't  had  them 
to  take  after,  he  'd  ha'  been  poorly  off.  There  was  never  any 
failures,  nor  lawing,  nor  wastefulness  in  our  family — nor 
dying  without  wills  —  " 

"JSTo,  nor  sudden  deaths,"  said  aunt  Pullet;  "allays  the 
doctor  called  in.  But  Tom  had  the  Dodson  skin :  I  said  that 
from  the  first.  And  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  to  do,  sister 
Glegg,  but  I  mean  to  give  him  a  table-cloth  of  all  my  three 
biggest  sizes  but  one,  besides  sheets.  I  don't  say  what  more 
I  shall  do  ;  but  that  I  shall  do,  and  if  I  should  die  to-morrow, 
Mr.  Pullet,  you  '11  bear  it  in  mind  —  though  you  '11  bfe  blunder- 
ing with  the  keys,  and  never  remember  as  that  on  the  third 
shelf  o'  the  left-hand  wardrobe,  behind  the  night-<3aps  with  the 
broad  ties  —  not  the  narrow-frilled  uns  —  is  the  key  o'  the 
drawer  in  the  Blue  Eoom,  where  the  key  o'  the  Blue  Closet  is. 
You  '11  make  a  mistake,  and  I  shall  niver  be  worthy  to  know 
it.  You've  a  memory  for  my  pills  and  draughts,  wonderful 
—  I  '11  allays  say  that  of  you  —  but  you  're  lost  among  the 
keys."  This  gloomy  prospect  of  the  confusion  that  would 
ensue  on  her  decease,  was  very  affecting  to  Mrs.  Pullet. 

"  You  carry  it  too  far,  Sophy  —  that  locking  in  and  out," 
said  Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  some  disgust  at  this  folly.    "  You  I 
go  beyond  your  own  family.     There 's  nobody  can  say  I  don't 
lock  up ;  but  I  do  what 's  reasonable,  and  no  more.     And  as] 
for  the  linen,  I  shall  look  out  what  's  serviceable,  to  make 
a  present  of  to  my  nephey  :  I  've  got  cloth  as  has  never  been! 
whittened,  better  worth  having  than  other  people's  fine  hol-j 
land ;  and  I  hope  he  '11  lie  down  in  it  and  think  of  his  aunt." 

Tom  thanked  Mrs.  Glegg,  but  evaded  any  promise  tG  meditate  j 
nightly  on  her  virtues;  and  Mr  Glegg  effected  a  dispersion  for 
him  by  asking  about  Mr.  Deane's  intentions  C(;ncerning  steam. 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  487 

Lucy  had  had  her  far-sighted  views  in  begging  Tom  to  come 
on  Sinbad.  It  appeared,  when  it  was  time  to  go  home,  that 
the  man-servant  was  to  ride  the  horse,  and  cousin  Tom  was  to 
drive  home  his  mother  and  Lucy.  "  You  must  sit  by  yourself, 
aunty,"  said  that  contriving  young  lady,  "  because  I  must  sit 
by  Tom  ;  I  've  a  great  deal  to  say  to  him." 

In  the  eagerness  of  her  affectionate  anxiety  for  Maggie, 
Lucy  could  not  persuade  herself  to  defer  a  conversation  about 
her  with  Tom,  who,  she  thought,  with  such  a  cup  of  joy  before 
him  as  this  rapid  fulfilment  of  his  wish  about  the  Mill,  must 
become  pliant  and  flexible.  Her  nature  supplied  her  with 
no  key  to  Tom's  ;  and  she  was  puzzled  as  well  as  pained  to 
notice  the  unpleasant  change  on  his  countenance  when  she 
gave  him  the  history  of  the  way  in  which  Philip  had  used  his 
influence  with  his  father.  She  had  counted  on  this  revelation 
as  a  great  stroke  of  policy,  which  was  to  turn  Tom  's  heart 
towards  Philip  at  once,  and,  besides  that,  prove  that  the  elder 
Wakem  was  ready  to  receive  Maggie  with  all  the  honors  of 
a  daughter-in-law.  Nothing  was  wanted,  then,  but  for  dear 
Tom,  who  always  had  that  pleasant  smile  when  he  looked  at 
cousin  Lucy,  to  turn  completely  round,  say  the  opposite  of 
what  he  had  always  said  before,  and  declare  that  he,  for  his 
part,  was  delighted  that  all  the  old  grievances  should  be  healed, 
and  that  Maggie  should  have  Philip  with  all  suitable  despatch  : 
in  cousin  Lucy's  opinion  nothing  could  be  easier. 

But  to  minds  strongly  marked  by  the  positive  and  negative 
qualities  that  create  severity  —  strength  of  will,  conscious  rec- 
titude of  purpose,  narrowness  of  imagination  and  intellect, 
great  power  of  self-control,  and  a  disposition  to  exert  control 
over  others  —  prejudices  come  as  the  natural  food  of  tenden- 
cies which  can  get  no  sustenance  out  of  that  complex,  frag- 
mentary, doubt-provoking  knowledge  which  we  call  truth.  Let 
a  prejudice  be  bequeathed,  carried  in  the  air,  adopted  by  hear- 
say, caught  in  through  the  eye  —  however  it  may  come,  these 
minds  will  give  it  a  habitation:  it  is  something  to  assert 
strongly  and  bravely,  something  to  fill  up  the  void  of  sponta- 
neous ideas,  something  to  impose  on  others  with  the  authority 
of  conscious  right :  it  is  at  once  a  staff  and  a  baton.     Every 


488  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

prejudice  that  will  answer  these  purposes  is  self-evident.  Our 
good  upright  Tom  Tulliver's  miud  was  of  this  class  :  his  in- 
ward criticism  of  his  father's  faults  did  not  prevent  him  from 
adopting  his  father's  prejudice  ;  it  was  a  prejudice  against  a 
man  of  lax  principle  and  lax  life,  and  it  was  a  meeting-point 
for  all  the  disappointed  feelings  of  family  and  personal  pride. 
Other  feelings  added  their  force  to  produce  Tom's  bitter  repug- 
nance to  Philip,  and  to  Maggie's  union  with  him  ;  and  notwith- 
standing Lucy's  power  over  her  strong-willed  cousin,  she  got 
nothing  but  a  cold  refusal  ever  to  sanction  such  a  marriage : 
"but  of  course  Maggie  could  do  as  she  liked  —  she  had  de- 
clared her  determination  to  be  independent.  For  Tom's  part, 
he  held  himself  bound  by  his  duty  to  his  father's  memory,  and 
by  every  manly  feeling,  never  to  consent  to  any  relation  with 
the  Wakems." 

Thus,  all  that  Lucy  had  effected  by  her  zealous  mediation 
was  to  till  Tom's  mind  with  the  expectation  that  Maggie's  per- 
verse resolve  to  go  into  a  situation  again  would  presently 
metamorphose  itself,  as  her  resolves  were  apt  to  do,  into  some- 
thing equally  perverse,  but  entirely  different  —  a  marriage 
with  Philip  Wakem. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BORNE  ALONG  BY  THE  TIDE. 

In  less  than  a  week  Maggie  was  at  St.  Ogg's  again,  —  out- 
wardly in  much  the  same  position  as  when  her  visit  there 
had  just  begun.  It  was  easy  for  her  to  fill  her  mornings  apart 
from  Lucy  without  any  obvious  effort ;  for  she  had  her  prom- 
ised visits  to  pay  to  her  aunt  Glegg,  and  it  was  natural  that  she 
should  give  her  mother  more  than  usual  of  her  companionship 
in  these  last  weeks,  especially  as  there  were  preparations  to 
be  thought  of  for  Tom's  housekeeping.  But  Lucy  would  hear 
of  no  pretext  for  her  remaining  away  in  the  evenings  :  she 
must  always  come  from  aunt  Glegg's  before  dinner  —  '•'  else 
what  shall  I  have  of  you  ?  "  said  Lucy,  with  a  tearful  pout  that 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  489 

could  not  he  resisted.  And  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  had  unaccount- 
ably  taken  to  dining  at  Mr.  Ueane's  as  often  as  possible,  in- 
stead of  avoiding  that,  as  he  used  to  do.  At  first  he  began 
his  mornings  with  a  resolution  that  he  would  not  dine  there 
—  not  even  go  in  the  evening,  till  Maggie  was  away.  He  had 
even  devised  a  plan  of  starting  off  on  a  journey  in  this  agree- 
able June  weather :  the  headaches  which  he  had  constantly 
been  alleging  as  a  ground  for  stupidity  and  silence  were  a  suffi 
cient  ostensible  motive.  But  the  journey  was  not  taken,  and 
by  the  fourth  morning  no  distinct  resolution  was  formed 
about  the  evenings  :  they  were  only  foreseen  as  times  when 
Maggie  would  still  be  present  for  a  little  while  —  when  one 
more  touch,  one  more  glance,  might  be  snatched.  For,  why 
not  ?  There  was  nothing  to  conceal  between  them :  they 
knew  —  they  had  confessed  their  love,  and  they  had  renounced 
each  other  :  they  were  going  to  part.  Honor  and  conscience 
wrere  going  to  divide  them  :  Maggie,  with  that  appeal  from 
her  inmost  soul,  had  decided  it;  but  surely  they  might  cast 
a  lingering  look  at  each  other  across  the  gulf,  before  they 
turned  away  never  to  look  again  till  that  strange  light  had 
forever  faded  out  of  their  eyes. 

Maggie,  all  this  time,  moved  about  with  a  quiescence  and 
even  torpor  of  manner,  so  contrasted  with  her  usual  fitful 
brightness  and  ardor,  that  Lucy  would  have  had  to  seek  some 
other  cause  for  such  a  change,  if  she  had  not  been  convinced 
that  the  position  in  which  Maggie  stood  between  Philip  and 
her  brother,  and  the  prospect  of  her  self-imposed  wearisome 
banishment,  were  quite  enough  to  account  for  a  large  amount 
of  depression.  But  under  this  torpor  there  was  a  fierce  battle  of 
emotions,  such  as  Maggie  in  all  her  life  of  struggle  had  never 
known  or  foreboded :  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  the  worst  evil 
in  her  had  lain  in  ambush  till  now,  and  had  suddenly  started 
up  full-armed,  with  hideous,  overpowering  strength  !  There 
were  moments  in  which  a  cruel  selfishness  seemed  to  be  getting 
possession  of  her:  why  should  not  Lucy— why  should  not 
Philip  suffer  ?  She  had  had  to  suflfer  through  many  years  of 
her  life;  and  who  had  renounced  anything  for  her?  And 
when  something  like  that  fulness  of  existence  —  love,  wealth, 


490  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

ease,  refinement,  all  that  her  nature  craved  —  was  brought 
within  her  reach,  why  was  she  to  forego  it,  that  another  might 
have  it  —  another,  who  perhaps  needed  it  less  ?  But  amidst 
all  this  new  passionate  tumult  there  were  the  old  voices  mak- 
ing themselves  heard  with  rising  power,  till,  from  time  to  time, 
the  tumult  seemed  quelled.  TVas  that  existence  which  tempted 
her  the  full  existence  she  dreamed  ?  Where,  then,  would  be 
all  the  memories  of  early  striving  —  all  the  deep  pity  for  an- 
other's pain,  which  had  been  nurtured  in  her  through  years  of 
affection  and  hardship  —  all  the  divine  presentiment  of  some- 
thing higher  than  mere  personal  enjoyment,  which  had  made 
the  sacredness  of  life  ?  She  might  as  well  hope  to  enjoy  walk- 
ing by  maiming  her  feet,  as  hope  to  enjoy  an  existence  in  which 
she  set  out  by  maiming  the  faith  and  sympathy  that  were  the 
best  organs  of  her  soul.  And  then,  if  pain  were  so  hard  to 
her,  what  was  it  to  others  ?  —  "  Ah,  God  !  preserve  me  from  in- 
flicting—  give  me  strength  to  bear  it."  —  How  had  she  sunk 
into  this  struggle  with  a  temptation  that  she  would  once  have 
thought  herself  as  secure  from,  as  from  deliberate  crime  ? 
When  was  that  first  hateful  moment  in  which  she  had  been 
conscious  of  a  feeling  that  clashed  with  her  truth,  affection,  and 
gratitude,  and  had  not  shaken  it  from  her  with  horror,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  loathsome  thing? — And  yet,  since  this  strange, 
sweet,  subduing  influence  did  not,  should  not,  conquer  her  — 
since  it  was  to  remain  simply  her  own  suffering  .  .  .  her  mind 
was  meeting  Stephen's  in  that  thought  of  his,  that  they  might 
still  snatch  moments  of  mute  confession  before  the  parting 
came.  For  was  not  he  suffering  too  ?  She  saw  it  daily  —  saw 
it  in  the  sickened  look  of  fatigue  with  which,  as  soon  as  he 
was  not  compelled  to  exert  himself,  he  relapsed  into  indifference 
towards  everything  but  the  possibility  of  watching  her.  Could 
she  refuse  sometimes  to  answer  that  beseeching  look  which 
she  felt  to  be  following  her  like  a  low  murmur  of  love  and 
pain  ?  She  refused  it  less  and  less,  till  at  last  the  evening  for 
them  both  was  sometimes  made  of  a  moment's  mutual  gaze : 
they  thought  of  it  till  it  came,  and  when  it  had  come,  they 
thought  of  nothing  else.  One  other  thing  Stephen  seemed  now 
and  then  to  care  for,  and  that  was  to  sing :  it  was  a  way  of 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  l!tl 

speaking  to  Maggie.  Perhaps  he  was  not  cliKtinotly  conscious 
that  he  was  impelled  to  it  by  a  secret  longing—  running  coun- 
ter to  all  his  self-coufessed  resolves  —  to  deepen  the  hold  he 
had  on  her.  Watch  your  own  speech,  and  notice  how  it  is 
guided  by  your  less  conscious  purposes,  and  you  will  under- 
stand that  contradiction  in  Stephen. 

Philip  Wakem  was  a  less  frequent  visitor,  but  he  came 
occasionally  in  the  evening,  and  it  happened  that  hu  was 
there  when  Lucy  said,  as  they  sat  out  on  the  lawn,  near 
sunset  — 

"Now  Maggie's  tale  of  visits  to  aunt  Glegg  is  completed,  I 
mean  that  we  shall  go  out  boating  every  day  until  she  goes. 
She  has  not  had  half  enough  boating  because  of  these  tire- 
some visits,  and  she  likes  it  better  than  anything.  Don't  you, 
Maggie  ?  " 

''  Better  than  any  sort  of  locomotion,  I  hope  you  mean," 
said  Philip,  smiling  at  Maggie,  who  was  hjlling  backward  in  a 
low  garden-chair ;  "  else  she  will  be  selling  her  soul  to  that 
ghostly  boatman  who  haunts  the  Floss  —  only  for  the  sake  of 
being  drifted  in  a  boat  forever." 

"  Should  you  like  to  be  her  boatman  ?  "  said  Lucy.  "  Be- 
cause, if  you  would,  you  can  come  with  us  and  take  an  oar.  If 
the  Ploss  were  but  a  quiet  lake  instead  of  a  river,  we  should 
be  independent  of  any  gentleman,  for  Maggie  can  row  splen- 
didly. As  it  is,  we  are  reduced  to  ask  services  of  knights  and 
squires,  who  do  not  seem  to  offer  them  with  great  alacrity."' 

She  looked  playful  reproach  at  Stephen,  who  Avas  sauntering 
up  and  down,  and  was  just  singing  in  pianissimo  falsetto  — 

"  The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 
Doth  ask  a  drink  divine." 

He  took  no  notice,  but  still  kept  aloof :  he  had  done  so  fre- 
quently during  Pliilip's  recent  visits. 

"  You  don't  seem  inclined  for  boating,"  said  Lucy,  when  he 
came  to  sit  down  by  her  on  the  bench.  "  Does  n't  rowing  suit 
you  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hate  a  large  party  in  a  boat,"  he  said,  almost  irritOr 
bly.     "  I  '11  come  when  you  have  no  one  else." 


492  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Lucy  colored,  fearing  that  Philip  would  be  hurt :  it  was 
quite  a  new  thing  for  Stephen  to  speak  in  that  way  ;  but  he 
had  certainly  not  been  well  of  late.  Pliilip  colored  too,  but 
less  from  a  feeling  of  personal  offence  than  from  a  vague  sus- 
picion that  Stephen's  moodiness  had  some  relation  to  Maggie, 
who  had  started  up  from  her  chair  as  he  spoke,  and  had 
walked  towards  the  hedge  of  laurels  to  look  at  the  descending 
sunlight  on  the  river. 

"  As  Miss  Deane  did  n't  know  she  was  excluding  others  by 
inviting  me,"  said  Philip,  "  I  am  bound  to  resign." 

"  No,  indeed,  you  shall  not,"  said  Lucy,  much  vexed.  "  I 
particularly  wish  for  your  company  to-morrow.  The  tide 
will  suit  at  half-past  ten  :  it  will  be  a  delicious  time  for  a 
couple  of  hours  to  row  to  Luckreth  and  walk  back,  before  the 
sun  gets  too  hot.  And  how  can  you  object  to  four  people  in 
a  boat  ?  "  she  added,  looking  at  Stephen. 

"I  don't  object  to  the  people,  but  the  number,"  said  Stephen, 
who  had  recovered  himself,  and  was  rather  ashamed  of  his 
rudeness.  "  If  I  voted  for  a  fourth  at  all,  of  course  it  would 
be  you,  Phil.  But  we  won't  divide  the  pleasure  of  escorting 
the  ladies  ;  we  '11  take  it  alternately.     I  '11  go  the  next  day." 

This  incident  had  the  effect  of  drawing  Philip's  attention 
with  freshened  solicitude  towards  Stephen  and  Maggie  ;  but 
when  they  re-entered  the  house,  music  was  proposed,  and  Mrs. 
Tulliver  and  Mr.  Deane  being  occupied  with  cribbage,  Maggie 
sat  apart  near  the  table  where  the  books  and  work  were 
placed  —  doing  nothing,  however,  but  listening  abstractedly 
to  the  music.  Stephen  presently  turned  to  a  duet  which  he 
insisted  that  Lucy  and  Philip  should  sing :  he  had  often  done 
the  same  thing  before  ;  but  this  evening  Philip  thought  he 
divined  some  double  intention  in  every  word  and  look  of 
Stephen's,  and  watched  him  keenly  —  angry  with  himself  all 
the  while  for  this  clinging  suspicion.  For  had  not  Maggie 
virtually  denied  any  ground  for  his  doubts  on  her  side  ?  and 
she  was  truth  itself:  it  was  impossible  not  to  believe  her 
word  and  glance  when  they  had  last  spoken  together  in  the 
garden.  Stephen  might  be  strongly  fascinated  by  her,  (what 
was  more  natural  ?)  but  Philip  felt  himself  rather  base  for 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  40;] 

intruding  on  what  must  be  his  friend's  painful  secret.  Still 
he  watched.  Stephen,  moving  away  from  the  piano,  sauntered 
slowly  towards  the  table  near  which  Maggie  sat,  and  turned 
over  the  newspapers,  apparently  in  mere  idleness.  Then  he 
seated  himself  with  his  back  to  tlie  piano,  dragging  a  news- 
paper under  his  elbow,  and  tlirusting  his  hand  through  his 
hair,  as  if  he  had  been  attracted  by  some  bit  of  local  news  in 
the  ''  Laceham  Courier."  He  was  in  reality  looking  at  Maggie, 
who  had  not  taken  the  slightest  notice  of  his  approaeh.  She 
had  always  additional  strength  of  resistance  when  I'hilip  was 
present,  just  as  we  can  restrain  our  speech  better  in  a  spot 
that  we  feel  to  be  hallowed.  But  at  last  she  heard  the 
word  "  dearest "  uttered  in  the  softest  tone  of  pained  entreaty, 
like  that  of  a  patient  who  asks  for  something  that  ought  to 
have  been  given  without  asking.  She  had  never  heard  that 
word  since  the  moments  in  the  lane  at  Basset,  when  it  had 
come  from  Stephen  again  and  again,  almost  as  involuntarily 
as  if  it  had  been  an  inarticulate  cry.  Philip  could  hear  no 
word,  but  he  had  moved  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  piano,  and 
could  see  Maggie  start  and  blush,  raise  her  eyes  an  instant 
towards  Stephen's  face,  but  immediately  look  appreliensively 
towards  himself.  It  was  not  evident  to  her  that  3*hilip  had 
observed  her ;  but  a  pang  of  shame,  under  the  sense  of  this 
concealment,  made  her  move  from  her  chair  and  walk  to  her 
mother's  side  to  watch  the  game  at  cribbage. 

Philip  went  home  soon  after  in  a  state  of  hideous  doubt  min- 
gled with  wretched  certainty.  It  was  impossible  for  him  now 
to  resist  the  conviction  that  there  was  some  mutual  conscious- 
ness between  Stephen  and  Maggie  ;  and  for  half  the  night 
his  irritable,  susceptible  nerves  were  pressed  upon  almost  to 
frenzy  by  that  one  wretched  fact :  he  could  attempt  no  expla- 
nation that  would  reconcile  it  with  her  words  and  actions. 
When,  at  last,  the  need  for  belief  in  Maggie  rose  to  its  habit- 
ual predominance,  he  was  not  long  in  imagining  the  truth :  — 
she  was  struggling,  she  was  banishing  herself — this  was  the 
clew  to  all  he  had  seen  since  his  return.  But  athwart  that 
belief  there  came  other  possibilities  tliat  would  not  be  driven 
out  of  sight.     His  imagination  wrought  out  the  whole  story  : 


494  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Stephen  was  madly  in  love  with,  her  ;  he  must  have  told  her 
so ;  she  had  rejected  him,  and  was  hurrying  away.  But  would 
he  give  her  up,  knowing  —  Philip  felt  the  fact  with  heart- 
crushing  despair  —  that  she  was  made  half  helpless  by  her 
feeling  towards  him  ? 

When  the  morning  came,  Philip  was  too  ill  to  think  of 
keeping  his  engagement  to  go  in  the  boat.  In  his  present 
agitation  he  could  decide  on  nothing  :  he  could  only  alternate 
between  contradictory  intentions.  First,  he  thought  he  must 
have  an  interview  with  Maggie,  and  entreat  her  to  confide  in 
him  ;  then  again,  he  distrusted  his  own  interference.  Had 
he  not  been  thrusting  himself  on  Maggie  all  along  ?  She  had 
uttered  words  long  ago  in  her  young  ignorance ;  it  was  enough 
to  make  her  hate  him  that  these  should  be  continually  present 
with  her  as  a  bond.  And  had  he  any  right  to  ask  her  for  a 
revelation  of  feelings  which  she  had  evidently  intended  to 
withhold  from  him  ?  He  would  not  trust  himself  to  see  her, 
till  he  had  assured  himself  that  he  could  act  from  pure  anxiety 
for  her,  and  not  from  egoistic  irritation.  He  wrote  a  brief 
note  to  Stephen,  and  sent  it  early  by  the  servant,  saying  that 
he  was  not  well  enough  to  fulfil  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Deane.     Would  Stephen  take  his  excuse,  and  fill  his  place  ? 

Lucy  had  arranged  a  charming  plan,  which  had  made  her 
quite  content  with  Stephen's  refusal  to  go  in  the  boat.  She 
discovered  that  her  father  was  to  drive  to  Lindum  this  morn- 
ing at  ten  :  Lindum  Avas  the  very  place  she  wanted  to  go  to, 
to  make  purchases  —  important  purchases,  which  must  by  no 
means  be  put  off  to  another  opportunity  ;  and  aunt  Tulliver 
must  go  too,  because  she  was  concerned  in  some  of  the 
purchases. 

"You  will  have  your  row  in  the  boat  just  the  same,  you 
know,"  she  said  to  Maggie  when  they  Avent  out  of  the  break- 
fast-room and  up-stairs  together ;  '•  Philip  will  be  here  at 
half-past  ten,  and  it  is  a  delicious  morning.  Now  don't  say  a 
word  against  it,  you  dear  dolorous  thing.  What  is  the  use  of 
my  being  a  fair}'^  godmother,  if  you  set  your  face  against  all 
the  wonders  I  work  for  you  ?  Don't  think  of  awful  cousin 
Tom  :  you  may  disobey  him  a  little." 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  495 

ot^tn-^r'  T'"'  ^"  °'^"^^^^"^-  S^-  --  almost  ,lud 
of  the  plan ;  for  perhaps  it  would  bring  her  some  stren.tl.  a.  d 
cahnness  to  be  alone  with  PhHip  again:  it  was  like  r  t  t"' 
the  scene  of  a  quieter  life,  in  which  the  very  struggle  w^ 
repose,  compared  with  the  daily  tumult  of  tlfe  presen       Z 

wi^haiTacf  .'^  door-bell  was  punctual,  and  she  was  thinking 
with  half-sad,  affectionate  pleasure  of  the  surprise  PluHp  would 
have  in  finding  «iat  he  was  to  be  w.th  hex' alone,  when  he 
distinguished  a  firm  rapid  step  across  the  hall  that  was 
certainly  not  Philip's:  the  door  opened,  and  Stephen  Gue" 

In  the  first  niomeni:  they  were  both  too  much  agitated  to 
speak;  for  Stephen  had  learned  from  the  servant  that  the 
others  were  gone  out.  Maggie  had  started  up  and  sat  down 
again,  with  her  heart  beating  violently ;  and  Stephen,  throwing 
down  his  cap  and  gloves,  came  and  sat  by  her  in  silence.  She 
thought  Philip  would  be  coming  soon ;  and  with  great  effort 
-for  she  trembled  visibly- she  rose  to  go  to  a  distant  chair. 
He  IS  not  commg,"  said  Stephen,  in  a  low  tone,  "/am 
going  in  the  boat." 

"Oh,  we  can't  go,"  said  Maggie,  sinking  into  her  chair 
again.  "Lucy  did  not  expect  — she  would  be  hurt.  Why  is 
not  Philip  come  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  well ;  he  asked  me  to  come  instead.'' 
"Lucy  is  gone  to  Lindum,"  said  Maggie,  taking  off  her  bon- 
net,  with  hurried,  trembling  fingers.     "  We  must  not  go." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Stephen,  dreamily,  looking  at  her,  as  he 
rested  his  arm  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  "  Then  we  '11  stay 
here."  "^ 

;      He   was   looking   into   her  deep,  deep  eyes  — far  off  and 

i  mysterious  as  the   starlit  blackness,  and  yet  very  near,  and 

!  timidly  loving.  Maggie  sat  perfectly  still  —  perliaps  for  mo- 
ments, perhaps  for  minutes —until  the  helpless  trembling  had 
{ceased,  and  there  was  a  warm  glow  on  her  cheek. 

i  "The  man  is  waiting  — he  has  taken  the  cushions,"  she 
said.     «  Will  you  go  and  tell  him  ?  " 


496  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  What  shall  I  tell  him  ?  ''  said  Stephen,  almost  in  a  whisper. 
He  was  looking  at  the  lips  now, 

Maggie  made  no  answer. 

"Let  us  go,-'  Stephen  murmured,  entreatinglj,  rising,  and 
taking  her  hand  to  raise  her  too.  '■'  We  shall  not  be  long 
together." 

And  they  went  Maggie  felt  that  she  was  being  led  down 
the  garden  among  the  roses,  being  helped  with  firm  tender 
care  into  the  boat,  having  the  cushion  and  cloak  arranged  for 
her  feet,  and  her  parasol  opened  for  her  (which  she  had  for- 
gotten) —  all  by  this  stronger  presence  that  seemed  to  bear 
her  along  without  any  act  of  her  own  will,  like  the  added  self 
which  comes  with  the  sudden  exalting  influence  of  a  strong 
tonic  —  and  she  felt  nothing  else.     Memory  was  excluded. 

They  glided  rapidly  along,  Stephen  rowing,  helped  by  the 
backward-flowing  tide,  past  the  Tofton  trees  and  houses  —  on 
between  the  silent  sunny  fields  and  pastures,  which  seemed 
filled  with  a  natural  joy  that  had  no  reproach  for  theirs.  The 
breath  of  the  young,  unwearied  day,  the  delicious  rhythmic 
dip  of  the  oars,  the  fragmentary  song  of  a  passing  bird  heard 
now  and  then,  as  if  it  were  only  the  overflowing  of  brim-full 
gladness,  the  sweet  solitude  of  a  twofold  consciousness  that 
was  mingled  into  one  by  that  grave  untiring  gaze  which  need 
not  be  averted — what  else  could  there  be  in  their  minds  for 
the  first  hour  ?  Some  low,  subdued,  languid  exclamation  of 
love  came  from  Stephen  from  time  to  time,  as  he  went  on  row- 
ing idly,  half  automatically  :  otherwise,  they  spoke  no  word ; 
for  what  could  words  have  been  but  an  inlet  to  thought  ?  and 
thought  did  not  belong  to  that  enchanted  haze  in  which  they 
were  enveloped  —  it  belonged  to  the  past  and  the  future  that 
lay  outside  the  haze,  Maggie  was  only  dimly  conscious  of  the 
banks,  as  they  passed  them,  and  dwelt  with  no  recognition 
on  the  villages :  she  knew  there  were  several  to  be  passed  be- 
fore they  reached  Luckreth,  where  they  always  stopped  and 
left  the  boat.  At  all  times  she  was  so  liable  to  fits  of  ab- 
sence, that  she  was  likely  enough  to  let  her  way-marks  pass 
unnoticed. 

But  at  last  Stephen,  who  had  been  rowing  more  and  more 


Mi&sii:  A5;»  MfJ^ES- 


THE  GREAT  TEMPl'ATION.  497 

idly,  ceased  to  row,  laid  down  the  oais,  folded  his  arms,  and 
looked  down  on  the  water  as  if  watching  the  pace  at  which  the 
boat  glided  without  his  help.  This  sudden  change  roused 
Maggie.  She  looked  at  the  far-streti^iing  fields  —  at  the 
banks  close  by  —  and  felt  that  they  were  entirely  strange  to 
her.     A  terrible  alarm  took  possession  of  her. 

"  Oh,  have  we  passed  Luckreth  —  where  we  were  to  stop  ?  " 
she  exclaimed,  looking  back  to  see  if  the  place  were  out  of 
sight.  No  village  was  to  be  seen.  She  turned  round  again, 
with  a  look  of  distressed  questioning  at  Stephen. 

He  went  on  watching  the  water,  and  said,  in  a  strange, 
dreamy,  absent  tone,  "Yes  —  a  long  way." 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  cried  Maggie,  in  an  agony.  "  We 
shall   not   get   home  for   hours  —  and  Lucy  —  Oh,  God,  help 


me  :  '■ 


She  clasped  her  hands  and  broke  into  a  sob,  like  a  fright- 
ened child :  she  thought  of  nothing  but  of  meeting  Lucy,  and 
seeing  her  look  of  pained  surprise  and  doubt  —  perhaps  of  just 
upbraiding. 

Stephen  moved  and  sat  near  her,  and  gently  drew  down  the 
clasped  hands. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  in  a  deep  tone  of  slow  decision,  "  let  us 
never  go  home  again  —  till  no  one  can  part  us  —  till  we  are 
married." 

The  unusual  tone,  the  startling  words,  arrested  Maggie's 
sob,  and  she  sat  quite  still  —  wondering:  as  if  Stephen  might 
have  seen  some  possibilities  that  would  alter  everything,  and 
annul  the  wretched  facts. 

"  See,  Maggie,  how  everything  has  come  without  our  seek- 
ing —  in  spite  of  all  our  efforts.  We  never  thought  of  being 
alone  together  again  :  it  has  all  been  done  by  others.  See 
how  the  tide  is  carrying  us  out  —  away  from  all  those  unnatu- 
ral bonds  that  we  have  been  trying  to  make  faster  round  us  — 
and  trying  in  vain.  It  will  carry  us  on  to  Torby,  and  we  can 
land  there,  and  get  some  carriage,  and  hurry  on  to  York  and 
then  to  Scotland  —  and  never  pause  a  moment  till  we  are 
bound  to  each  other,  so  that  only  death  can  j.art  us.  It  is  the 
only  right  thing,  dearest :  it  is  the  only  way  of  escaping  from 

VOL.    II.  ^^ 


498  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

this  wretched  eutauglement.  Everything  has  concurred  to 
point  it  out  to  us.  We  have  contrived  nothing,  we  have 
thought  of  nothing  ourselves." 

Stei^heu  spoke  with  deep  earnest  pleading.  Maggie  listened 
—  pass-ing  from  her  startled  wonderment  to  the  yearning  after 
that  belief,  that  the  tide  was  doing  it  all  —  that  she  might 
glide  along  with  the  swift,  silent  stream,  and  not  struggle  any 
more.  But  across  that  stealing  influence  came  the  terrible 
shadow  of  past  thoughts;  and  the  sudden  horror  lest  now,  at 
last,  the  moment  of  fatal  intoxication  was  close  upon  her, 
called  up  feelings  of  angry  resistance  towards  Stephen. 

"  Let  me  go ! "  she  said,  in  an  agitated  tone,  flashing  an 
indignant  look  at  him,  and  trying  to  get  her  hands  free. 
"  You  have  wanted  to  deprive  me  of  any  choice.  You  knew 
we  were  come  too  far  —  you  have  dared  to  take  advantage  of 
my  thoughtlessness.  It  is  unmanly  to  bring  me  into  such  a 
position." 

Stung  by  this  reproach,  he  released  her  hands,  moved  back 
to  his  former  place,  and  folded  his  arms,  in  a  sort  of  despera- 
tion at  the  difficulty  Maggie's  words  had  made  present  to  him. 
If  she  would  not  consent  to  go  on,  he  must  curse  himself  for 
the  embarrassment  he  had  led  her  into.  But  the  reproach  was 
the  unendurable  thing  :  the  one  thing  worse  than  parting  with 
her  was,  that  she  should  feel  he  had  acted  unworthily  towards 
her.     At  last  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  rage  — 

"  I  did  n't  notice  that  we  had  passed  Luckreth  till  we  had 
got  to  the  next  village ;  and  then  it  came  into  my  mind  that 
we  would  go  on.  I  can't  justify  it :  I  ought  to  have  told  you. 
It  is  enough  to  make  you  hate  me  —  since  you  don't  love  me 
well  enough  to  make  everything  else  indifferent  to  you,  as  I 
do  you.  Shall  I  stop  the  boat,  and  try  to  get  you  out  here  ? 
I  '11  tell  Lucy  that  I  was  mad  —  and  that  you  hate  me  —  and 
you  shall  be  clear  of  me  forever.  No  one  can  blame  you, 
because  I  have  behaved  unpardonably  to  you." 

Maggie  was  paralyzed :  it  was  easier  to  resist  Stephen's 
pleading,  than  this  picture  he  had  called  up  of  himself  suffer- 
ing while  she  was  vindicated  —  easier  even  to  turn  away  from 
his  look  of  tehderaess  than  from  this  look  of  angry  misery, 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  400 

that  seemed  to  place  her  in  selfish  isolation  from  him.  H,. 
had  called  up  a  state  of  feeling  in  whicli  the  reasons  whicli 
had  acted  on  her  conscience  seemed  to  1)(!  transmuted  into 
mere  self-regard.  The  indignant  iire  in  her  eyes  was  quenched, 
and  she  began  to  look  at  him  with  timid  distress.  She  had 
reproached  him  for  being  hurried  into  irrevocable  trespass  — 
she,  who  had  been  so  weak  herself. 

"As  if  I  shouldn't  feel  what  happened  to  you  — just  the 
same/'  she  said,  with  reproach  of  another  kind  —  the  reproach 
of  love,  asking  for  more  trust.  This  yielding  to  the  idea  of 
Stephen's  suffering  was  more  fatal  than  the  other  yieldiiig, 
because  it  was  less  distinguishable  from  that  sense  of  others' 
claims  which  was  the  moral  basis  of  her  resistance. 

He  felt  all  the  relenting  in  her  look  and  tone  — it  was 
heaven  opening  again.  He  moved  to  her  side,  and  took  her 
hand,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  back  of  the  boat,  and  saying 
nothing.  He  dreaded  to  utter  another  word,  he  dreaded  to 
make  another  movement,  that  might  provoke  another  reproach 
or  denial  from  her.  Life  hung  on  her  consent:  everytliing 
else  was  hopeless,  confused,  sickening  misery.  They  glided 
along  in  this  way,  both  resting  in  that  silence  as  in  a  haven, 
both  dreading  lest  their  feelings  should  be  divided  again  — 
till  they  became  aware  that  the  clouds  had  gathered,  and  that 
the  slightest  pei-ceptible  freshening  of  the  breeze  was  growing 
and  growing,  so  that  the  whole  character  of  the  day  was 
altered. 

"You  will  be  chill,  Maggie,  in  this  thin  dress.  Let  me 
raise  the  cloak  over  your  shoulders.  Get  up  an  instant, 
dearest." 

Maggie  obeyed :  there  was  an  unspeakable  charm  in  being 
told  what  to  do,  and  having  everything  decided  for  her.  She 
sat  down  again  covered  with  the  cloak,  and  Stephen  took  to 
his  oars  again,  making  haste ;  for  they  must  try  to  get  to 
Torby  as  fast  as  they  could.  Maggie  was  hardly  conscious 
of  having  said  or  done  anything  decisive.  All  yielding  is 
attended  with  a  less  vivid  consciousness  than  resistance ;  it  is 
the  partial  sleep  of  thought;  it  is  the  submergence  of  our  own 
personality  by  another.     Every  influence  tended  to  lull  hoi 


500  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

into  acquiescence  :  that  dreamy  gliding  in  the  boat,  which  had 
lasted  for  four  hours,  and  had  brought  some  weariness  and 
exhaustion  —  the  recoil  of  her  fatigued  sensations  from  the 
impracticable  difficulty  of  getting  out  of  the  boat  at  this  un- 
known distance  from  home,  and  walking  for  long  miles  —  all 
helped  to  bring  her  into  more  complete  subjection  to  that 
strong  mysterious  charm  which  made  a  last  parting  from  Ste- 
phen seem  the  death  of  all  joy,  and  made  the  thought  of 
wounding  him  like  the  first  touch  of  the  torturing  iron  before 
which  resolution  shrank.  And  then  there  was  the  present 
happiness  of  being  with  him,  which  was  enough  to  absorb  all 
her  languid  energy. 

Presently  Stephen  observed  a  vessel  coming  after  them. 
Several  vessels,  among  them  the  steamer  to  Mudport,  had 
passed  them  with  the  early  tide,  but  for  the  last  hour  they 
had  seen  none.  He  looked  more  and  more  eagerly  at  this 
vessel,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  come  into  his  mind  along  with 
it,  and  then  he  looked  at  Maggie  hesitatingly. 

"  Maggie,  dearest,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  if  this  vessel  should  be 
going  to  Mudport,  or  to  any  convenient  place  on  the  coast 
northward,  it  would  be  our  best  plan  to  get  them  to  take  us 
on  board.  You  are  fatigued  —  and  it  may  soon  rain  —  it  may 
be  a  wretched  business,  getting  to  Torby  in  this  boat.  It 's 
only  a  trading-vessel,  but  I  dare  say  you  can  be  made  tolerably 
comfortable.  We  '11  take  the  cushions  out  of  the  boat.  It  is 
really  our  best  plan.  They  '11  be  glad  enough  to  take  us :  I  've 
got  plenty  of  money  about  me ;  I  can  pay  them  well." 

Maggie's  heart  began  to  beat  with  reawakened  alarm  at  this 
new  proposition ;  but  she  was  silent  —  one  course  seemed  as 
difficult  as  another. 

Stephen  hailed  the  vessel.  It  was  a  Dutch  vessel  going  to 
Mudport,  the  English  mate  informed  him,  and,  if  this  wind 
held,  would  be  there  in  less  than  two  days. 

"  We  had  got  out  too  far  with  our  boat,"  said  Stephen.  I 
was  trying  to  mako  ."or  Torby.  But  I  'm  afraid  of  the  weather ; 
and  this  lady  —  my  wife  —  will  be  exhausted  with  fatigue  and 
hunger.  Take  us  on  board  —  will  you  ?  —  and  haul  up  the 
boat.     I  '11  pay  you  well." 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  501 

Maggie,  now  really  faint  and  trembling  with  fear,  was  taken 
on  board,  making  an  interesting  object  of  contemplation  to  ad- 
miring Dutchmen.  The  mate  feared  the  lady  would  liave  a 
poor  time  of  it  on  board,  for  they  had  no  acfommodation  for 
such  entirely  unlooked-for  passengers  -  no  private  cal)in  larger 
than  an  old-fashioned  church-pew.  But  at  least  they  had 
Dutch  cleanliness,  which  makes  all  other  inconveniences  toler- 
able ;  and  the  boat-cushions  were  spread  into  a  couch  for  Mag- 
gie on  the  poop  with  all  alacrity.  But  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  deck  leaning  on  Stephen  —  being  upheld  by  his  strength 

—  was  the  first  change  that  she  needed :  then  came  food,  and 
then  quiet  reclining  on  the  cushions,  with  the  sense  that  no  new 
resolution  could  be  taken  that  day.  Everything  must  wait  till 
to-morrow.  Stephen  sat  beside  her  with  her  hand  in  his ;  they 
could  only  speak  to  each  other  in  low  tones;  only  look  at 
each  other  now  and  then,  for  it  would  take  a  long  while  to 
dull  the  curiosity  of  the  five  men  on  board,  and  reduce  these 
handsome  young  strangers  to  that  minor  degree  of  interest 
which  belongs,  in  a  sailor's  regard,  to  all  objects  nearer  than 
the  horizon.  But  Stephen  was  triumphantly  happy.  Every 
other  thought  or  care  was  thrown  into  unmarked  perspective 
by  the  certainty  that  Maggie  must  be  his.  The  leap  had  been 
taken  now  :  he  had  been  tortured  by  scruples,  he  had  fought 
fiercely  with  overmastering  inclination,  he  had  hesitated  ;  but 
repentance  was  impossible.  He  murmured  forth  in  fragnien 
tary  sentences  his  happiness  — his  adoration  —  his  tenderness 

—  his  belief  that  their  life  together  must  be  heaven  —  that  her 
presence  with  him  would  give  rapture  to  every  common  day  — 
that  to  satisfy  her  lightest  wish  was  dearer  to  him  than  all 
other  bliss  —  that  everything  was  easy  for  her  sake,  exee})t  to 
part  with  her :  and  now  they  never  would  part ;  he  would  be- 
long to  her  forever,  and  all  that  was  his  was  hers  —  had  no 
value  for  him  except  as  it  was  hers.  Such  things,  uttered  in 
low  broken  tones  by  the  one  voice  that  has  first  stirred  the 
fibre  of  young  passion,  have  only  a  feeble  effect  —  on  experi- 
enced minds  at  a  distance  from  them.  To  poor  Maggie  they 
were  very  near :  they  were  like  nectar  held  close  to  thirsty 
lips :  there  was,  there  -miisi  be,  then,  a  life  for  mortals  here 


502  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

below  which  was  not  hard  and  chill  —  in  which  affection  would 
no  longer  be  self-sacrifice.  Stephen's  passionate  words  made  the 
vision  of  such  a  life  more  fully  present  to  her  than  it  had  ever 
been  before  ;  and  the  vision  for  the  time  excluded  all  realities 
—  all  except  the  returning  sun-gleams  which  broke  out  on  the 
waters  as  the  evening  approached,  and  mingled  with  the  vision- 
ary sunlight  of  promised  happiness — all  except  the  hand  that 
pressed  hers,  and  the  voice  that  spoke  to  her,  and  the  eyes 
that  looked  at  her  with  grave  unspeakable  love. 

There  was  to  be  no  rain,  after  all ;  the  clouds  rolled  off  to 
the  horizon  again,  making  the  great  purple  rampart  and  long 
purple  isles  of  that  wondrous  land  which  reveals  itself  to  us 
when  the  sun  goes  down  —  the  land  that  the  evening  star 
watches  over.  Maggie  was  to  sleep  all  night  on  the  poop ;  it 
was  better  than  going  below  ;  and  she  was  covered  with  the 
warmest  wrappings  the  ship  could  furnish.  It  was  still  early, 
when  the  fatigues  of  the  day  brought  on  a  drowsy  longing  for 
perfect  rest,  and  she  laid  down  her  head,  looking  at  the  faint 
dying  flush  in  the  west,  where  the  one  golden  lamp  was  get- 
ting brighter  and  brighter.  Then  she  looked  up  at  Stephen, 
who  was  still  seated  by  her,  hanging  over  her  as  he  leaned  his 
arm  against  the  vessel's  side.  Behind  all  the  delicious  visions 
of  these  last  hours,  which  had  flowed  over  her  like  a  soft 
stream,  and  made  her  entirely  passive,  there  was  the  dim  con- 
sciousness that  the  condition  was  a  transient  one,  and  that  the 
morrow  must  bring  back  the  old  life  of  struggle — that  there 
were  thoughts  which  would  presently  avenge  themselves  for 
this  oblivion.  But  now  nothing  was  distinct  to  her  :  she  was 
being  lulled  to  sleep  with  that  soft  stream  still  flowing  over 
her,  with  those  delicious  visions  melting  and  fading  like  the 
wondrous  aerial  land  of  the  west. 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  G03 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WAKING. 

When  Maggie  was  gone  to  sleep,  Stephen,  -weary  too  with 
his  unaccustomed  amount  of  rowing,  and  with  the  intense 
inward  life  of  the  last  twelve  hours,  but  too  restless  to  sleep, 
walked  and  lounged  about  the  deck  with  his  cigar  far  on  into 
midnight,  not  seeing  the  dark  water  —  hardly  conscious  there 
were  stars  —  living  only  in  the  near  and  distant  future.  At 
last  fatigue  conquered  restlessness,  and  he  rolled  himself  up 
in  a  piece  of  tarpaulin  on  the  deck  near  Maggie's  feet. 

She  had  fallen  asleep  before  nine,  and  had  been  sleeping 
for  six  hours  before  the  faintest  hint  of  a  midsummer  day- 
break was  discernible.  She  awoke  from  that  vivid  dreaming 
which  makes  the  margin  of  our  deeper  rest.  She  was  in  a 
boat  on  the  wide  water  with  Stephen,  and  in  the  gathering 
darkness  something  like  a  star  appeared,  that  grew  and  grew 
till  they  saw  it  was  the  Virgin  seated  in  St.  Ogg's  boat,  and  it 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  till  they  saw  the  Virgin  was  Lucy 
and  the  boatman  was  Philip  —  no,  not  Philip,  but  her  brother, 
who  rowed  past  without  looking  at  her  ;  and  she  rose  to 
stretch  out  her  arms  and  call  to  him,  and  their  own  boat 
turned  over  with  the  movement,  and  they  began  to  sink,  till 
with  one  spasm  of  dread  she  seemed  to  awake,  and  find  she 
was  a  child  again  in  the  parlor  at  evening  twilight,  and  Tom 
was  not  really  angry.  From  the  soothed  sense  of  that  false 
waking  she  passed  to  the  real  waking  —  to  the  plash  of  water 
against  the  vessel,  and  the  sound  of  a  footstep  on  the  deck, 
and  the  awful  starlit  sky.  There  was  a  moment  of  utter 
bewilderment  before  her  mind  could  get  disentangled  from 
the  confused  web  of  dreams;  but  soon  the  whole  terrible 
truth  urged  itseit  upon  her.  Stephen  was  not  by  her  now  : 
she  was  alone  with  her  own  memory  and  her  own  dread. 
The  irrevocable  wrong  that  must  blot  her  life  had  been  com- 
mitted :  she  had  brought  sorrow  into  the  lives  of  others  — 


504  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

into  the  lives  tliat  were  knit  up  with  hers  by  trust  and  love. 
The  feeling  of  a  few  short  weeks  had  hurried  her  into  the 
sins  her  nature  had  most  recoiled  from  —  breach  of  faith  and 
cruel  selfishness ;  she  had  rent  the  ties  that  had  given  mean- 
ing to  duty,  and  had  made  herself  an  outlawed  soul,  with  no 
guide  but  the  wayward  choice  of  her  own  passion.  And 
where  would  that  lead  her  ?  —  where  had  it  led  her  now  ? 
She  had  said  she  would  rather  die  than  fall  into  that  temp- 
tation. She  felt  it  now  —  now  that  the  consequences  of  such 
a  fall  had  come  before  the  outward  act  was  completed.  There 
was  at  least  this  fruit  from  all  her  years  of  striving  after  the 
highest  and  best — that  her  soul,  though  betrayed,  beguiled, 
ensnared,  could  never  deliberately  consent  to  a  choice  of  the 
lower.  And  a  choice  of  what  ?  Oh,  God  —  not  a  choice  of  joy, 
but  of  conscious  cruelty  and  hardness;  for  could  she  ever 
cease  to  see  before  her  Lucy  and  Philip,  with  their  murdered 
trust  and  hopes  ?  Her  life  with  Stephen  could  have  no  sacred- 
ness;  she  must  forever  sink  and  wander  vaguely,  driven  by 
uncertain  impulse ;  for  she  had  let  go  the  clew  of  life  —  that 
clew  which  once  in  the  far-off  years  her  young  need  had 
clutched  so  strongly.  She  had  renounced  all  delights  then, 
before  she  knew  them,  before  they  had  come  within  her 
reach.  Philip  had  been  right  when  he  told  her  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  renunciation  :  she  had  thought  it  was  quiet 
ecstasy  ;  she  saw  it  face  to  face  now  —  that  sad  patient  lov- 
ing strength  which  holds  the  clew  of  life  —  and  saw  that 
the  thorns  were  forever  pressing  on  its  brow.  The  yesterday, 
which  could  never  be  revoked  —  if  she  could  have  changed  it 
now  for  any  length  of  inward  silent  endurance,  she  would 
have  bowed  beneath  that  cross  with  a  sense  of  rest. 

Daybreak  came  and  the  reddening  eastern  light,  while  her 
past  life  was  grasping  her  in  this  way,  with  that  tightening 
clutch  which  comes  in  the  last  moments  of  possible  rescue. 
She  could  see  Stephen  now  lying  on  the  deck  still  fast  asleep, 
and  with  the  sight  of  him  there  came  a  wave  of  anguish  that 
found  its  way  in  a  long-suppressed  sob.  The  worst  bitterness 
of  parting  —  the  thought  that  urged  the  sharpest  inward  cry 
for  help,  was  the  pain  it  must  give  to  him.     But  surmounting 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  605 

everything  was  the  horror  at  her  own  possible  failure,  the 
dread  lest  her  conscience  should  be  benumbed  again,  and  not 
rise  to  energy  till  it  was  too  late.  —  Too  late  !  it  was  too  late 
already  not  to  have  caused  misery  :  too  late  for  everything, 
perhaps,  but  to  rush  away  from  the  last  act  of  baseness  —  the 
tasting  of  joys  that  were  wrung  from  crushed  hearts. 

The  sun  was  rising  now,  and  Maggie  started  up  with  the 
sense  that  a  day  of  resistance  was  beginning  for  her.  ilcr 
eyelashes  were  still  wet  with  tears,  as,  with  her  shawl  over 
lier  head,  she  sat  looking  at  the  slowly  rounding  sun.  Some- 
thing roused  Stephen  too,  and,  getting  up  from  his  hard  bed, 
he  came  to  sit  beside  her.  The  sharp  instinct  of  anxious  love 
saw  something  to  give  him  alarm  in  the  very  first  glance.  He 
had  a  hovering  dread  of  some  resistance  in  Maggie's  nature 
that  he  would  be  unable  to  overcome.  He  had  the  uneasy 
consciousness  that  he  had  robbed  her  of  perfect  freedom  yes- 
terday :  there  was  too  much  native  honor  in  him,  for  him  not 
to  feel  that,  if  her  will  should  recoil,  his  conduct  would  have 
been  odious,  and  she  would  have  a  right  to  reproach  him. 

But  Maggie  did  not  feel  that  right :  she  was  too  conscious 
of  fatal  weakness  in  herself  —  too  full  of  the  tenderness  that 
comes  with  the  foreseen  need  for  inflicting  a  Avound.  She  let 
him  take  her  hand  when  he  came  to  sit  down  beside  her,  and 
smiled  at  him  —  only  with  rather  a  sad  glance ;  she  could  say 
nothing  to  pain  him  till  the  moment  of  possible  parting  was 
nearer.  And  so  they  drank  their  cup  of  coffee  together,  and 
walked  about  the  deck,  and  heard  the  captain's  assurance 
that  they  should  be  in  at  Mudport  by  five  o'clock,  each  with  an 
inward  burthen ;  but  in  him  it  was  an  undefined  fear,  which 
he  trusted  to  the  coming  hours  to  dissipate ;  in  her  it  was  a 
definite  resolve  on  which  she  was  trying  silently  to  tigliton 
her  hold.  Stephen  was  continually,  through  the  morning, 
expressing  his  anxiety  at  the  fatigue  and  discomfort  she  wa.s 
suffering,  and  alluded  to  landing  and  to  the  change  of  motion 
and  repose  she  would  have  in  a  carriage,  wanting  to  assure 
himself  more  completely  by  presupposing  that  everything 
would  be  as  he  had  arranged  it.  For  a  long  while  Maggie 
contented  herself  with  assuring  him  that  she  had  had  a  good 


506  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

night's  rest,  and  that  she  did  n't  mind  about  being  on  the  ves- 
sel —  it  was  not  like  being  on  the  open  sea  —  it  was  only  a 
little  less  pleasant  than  being  in  a  boat  on  the  Floss.  But  a 
suppressed  resolve  will  betray  itself  in  the  eyes,  and  Stephen 
became  more  and  more  uneasy  as  the  day  advanced,  under  the 
sense  that  Maggie  had  entirely  lost  her  passiveness.  He 
longed,  but  did  not  dare,  to  speak  of  their  marriage  —  of 
where  they  would  go  after  it,  and  the  steps  he  would  take  to 
inform  his  father,  and  the  rest,  of  what  had  happened.  He 
longed  to  assure  himself  of  a  tacit  assent  from  her.  But  each 
time  he  looked  at  her,  he  gathered  a  stronger  dread  of  the 
new,  quiet  sadness  with  which  she  met  his  eyes.  And  they 
were  more  and  more  silent. 

"Here  we  are  in  sight  of  Mudport,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  Now,  dearest,"  he  added,  turning  towards  her  with  a  look 
that  was  half  beseeching,  "the  worst  part  of  your  fatigue  is 
over.  On  the  land  we  can  command  swiftness.  In  another 
hour  and  a  half  we  shall  be  in  a  chaise  together  —  and  that 
will  seem  rest  to  you  after  this." 

Maggie  felt  it  was  time  to  speak  :  it  would  only  be  unkind 
now  to  assent  by  silence.  She  spoke  in  the  lowest  tone,  as  he 
had  done,  but  with  distinct  decision. 

"  We  shall  not  be  together  —  we  shall  have  parted." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Stephen's  face. 

"  We  shall  not,"  he  said.     "  I  '11  die  first." 

It  was  as  he  had  dreaded  —  there  was  a  struggle  coming. 
But  neither  of  them  dared  to  say  another  word,  till  the  boat 
was  let  down,  and  they  were  taken  to  the  landing-place. 
Here  there  was  a  cluster  of  gazers  and  passengers  awaiting 
the  departure  of  the  steamboat  to  St.  Ogg's.  Maggie  had  a 
dim  sense,  when  she  had  landed,  and  Stephen  was  hurrying 
her  along  on  his  arm,  that  some  one  had  advanced  towards 
her  from  that  cluster  as  if  he  were  coming  to  speak  to  her. 
But  she  was  hurried  along,  and  was  indifferent  to  everything 
but  the  coming  trial. 

A  porter  guided  them  to  the  nearest  inn  and  posting-house, 
and  Stephen  gave  the  order  for  the  chaise  as  they  passed 
through  the  yard.     Maggie  took  no  notice  of  this,  and  only 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  507 

said,  "  Ask  them  to  show  us  into  a  room  where  we  can  sit 
down." 

When  they  entered,  Maggie  did  not  sit  down,  and  Steplien, 
whose  face  had  a  desperate  determination  in  it,  was  about  to 
ring  the  bell,  when  she  said,  in  a  firm  voice  — 

"  I  'm  not  going :  we  must  part  here." 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  turning  round  towards  her,  and  speaking 
in  the  tones  of  a  man  who  feels  a  process  of  torture  beginning, 
"  do  you  mean  to  kill  me  ?  What  is  the  use  of  it  now  ?  The 
whole  thing  is  done." 

"No,  it  is  not  done,"  said  Maggie.  "Too  much  is  done  — 
more  than  we  can  ever  remove  the  trace  of.  But  I  will  go 
no  farther.  Don't  try  to  prevail  with  me  again.  I  could  n't 
choose  yesterday." 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  He  dared  not  go  near  her  —  her  anger 
might  leap  out,  and  make  a  new  barrier.  He  walked  back- 
wards and  forwards  in  maddening  perplexity. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said  at  last,  pausing  before  her,  and  speaking 
in  a  tone  of  imploring  wretchedness,  "  have  some  pity  —  hear 
me  —  forgive  me  for  what  I  did  yesterday.  I  will  obey  you 
now  —  I  will  do  nothing  without  your  full  consent.  But  don't 
blight  our  lives  forever  by  a  rash  perversity  that  can  answer 
no  good  purpose  to  any  one  —  that  can  only  create  new  evils. 
Sit  down,  dearest ;  wait  —  think  what  you  are  going  to  do. 
Don't  treat  me  as  if  you  couldn't  trust  me." 

He  had  chosen  the  most  effective  appeal ;  but  Maggie's  will 
was  fixed  unswervingly  on  the  coming  wrench.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  suffer. 

"We  must  not  wait,"  she  said,  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice; 
"we  must  part  at  once." 

"We  can't  part,  Maggie,"  said  Stephen,  more  impetuously. 
"  I  can't  bear  it.  What  is  the  use  of  inflicting  that  misery 
on  me  ?  the  blow  —  whatever  it  may  have  been  —  lias  been 
struck  now.  Will  it  help  any  one  else  that  you  should  drive 
me  mad  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  begin  any  future,  even  for  you,"  said  Maggie, 
tremulously,  "  with  a  deliberate  consent  to  what  ought  not  to 
have  been.     What  I  told  you  at  Basset  I  feel  now  :  I  would 


508  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

ratter  have  died  than  fall  into  this  temptation.  It  would 
have  been  better  if  we  had  parted  forever  then.  But  we 
must  part  now." 

"  We  will  not  part,"  Stephen  burst  out,  instinctively  placing 
his  back  against  the  door  —  forgetting  everything  he  had  said 
a  few  moments  before  ;  "  I  will  not  endure  it.  You  '11  make 
me  desperate  —  I  shan't  know  what  1  do." 

Maggie  trembled.  She  felt  that  the  parting  could  not  be 
effected  suddenly.  She  must  rely  on  a  slower  appeal  to  Ste- 
phen's better  self  —  she  must  be  prepared  for  a  harder  task 
than  that  of  rushing  away  while  resolution  was  fresh.  She 
sat  down.  Stephen,  watching  her  with  that  look  of  despera- 
tion which  had  come  over  him  like  a  lurid  light,  approached 
slowly  from  the  door,  seated  himself  close  beside  her,  and 
grasped  her  hand.  Her  heart  beat  like  the  heart  of  a  fright- 
ened bird ;  but  this  direct  opposition  helped  her.  She  felt 
her  determination  growing  stronger. 

"  Kemember  what  you  felt  weeks  ago,"  she  began,  with  be- 
seeching earnestness  —  "  remember  what  we  both  felt  —  that 
we  owed  ourselves  to  others,  and  must  conquer  every  inclina- 
tion which  could  make  us  false  to  that  debt.  We  have  failed 
to  keep  our  resolutions ;  but  the  wrong  remains  the  same." 

"No,  it  does  not  remain  the  same,"  said  Stephen.  "We 
have  proved  that  it  was  impossible  to  keep  our  resolutions. 
We  have  proved  that  the  feeling  which  draws  us  towards  each 
other  is  too  strong  to  be  overcome  :  that  natural  law  surmounts 
every  other ;  we  can't  help  what  it  clashes  with." 

"  It  is  not  so,  Stephen  —  I  'm  quite  sure  that  is  wrong.  I 
have  tried  to  think  it  again  and  again  ;  but  I  see,  if  we  judged 
in  that  way,  there  would  be  a  warrant  for  all  treachery  and 
cruelty  —  we  should  justify  breaking  the  most  sacred  ties 
that  can  ever  be  formed  on  earth.  If  the  past  is  not  to  bind 
us,  where  can  duty  lie  ?  We  should  have  no  law  but  the 
inclination  of  the  moment." 

"  But  there  are  ties  that  can't  be  kept  by  mere  resolution," 
said  Stephen,  starting  up  and  walking  about  again,  "What 
is  outward  faithfulness  ?  Would  they  have  thanked  us  for 
anything  so  hollow  as  constancy  without  love  ?  " 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  .OOO 

Maggie  did  not  answer  immediately.  Slie  was  undergoing 
an  inward  as  well  as  an  outward  contest.  At  last  she  said, 
with  a  passionate  assertion  of  her  conviction,  as  much  against 
herself  as  against  him  — 

"  That  seems  right  —  at  first ;  but  when  I  look  further,  I  'm 
sure  it  is  not  right.  Faithfulness  and  constancy  mean  some- 
thing else  besides  doing  what  is  easiest  and  pleasautest  to 
ourselves.  They  mean  renouncing  whatever  is  opposed  to 
the  reliance  others  have  in  us  —  whatever  would  cause  misery 
to  those  whom  the  course  of  our  lives  has  made  dependent  on 
us.  If  we  —  if  I  had  been  better,  nobler,  those  claims  would 
have  been  so  strongly  present  with  me  —  I  shi  ;uld  have  felt 
them  pressing  on  my  heart  so  continually,  just  as  they  do  now 
in  the  moments  when  my  conscience  is  awake  —  that  the  op. 
posite  feeling  would  never  have  grown  in  me,  as  it  has  done  : 
it  would  have  been  quenched  at  once  —  I  should  have  prayed 
for  help  so  earnestly  —  I  should  have  rushed  away  as  we  rush 
from  hideous  danger.  I  feel  no  excuse  for  myself  —  none. 
I  should  never  have  failed  towards  Lucy  and  Philip  as  I  have 
done,  if  I  had  not  been  weak,  selfish,  and  hard  —  able  to  think 
of  their  pain  without  a  pain  to  myself  that  would  have  de- 
stroyed all  temptation.  Oh,  what  is  Lucy  feeling  now  ?  She 
believed  in  me  —  she  loved  me  —  she  was  so  good  to  me. 
Think  of  her  —  " 

Maggie's  voice  was  getting  choked  as  she  uttered  these  last 
words. 

"I  canH  think  of  her,"  said  Stephen,  stamping  as  if  with 
pain.  "I  can  think  of  nothing  but  you,  Maggie.  You  de- 
mand of  a  man  what  is  impossible.  I  felt  that  once ;  but  I 
can't  go  back  to  it  now.  And  where  is  the  use  of  your  think- 
ing of  it,  except  to  torture  me  ?  You  can't  save  them  from 
pain  now ;  you  can  only  tear  yourself  from  me,  and  make  my 
life  worthless  to  me.  And  even  if  we  could  go  back,  and  both 
fulfil  our  engagements  —  if  that  were  possible  now  —  it  would 
be  hateful  — horrible,  to  think  of  your  ever  being  Thilip's  wife 
—  of  your  ever  being  the  wife  of  a  man  you  didn't  love. 
We  have  both  been  rescued  from  a  mistake." 

A  deep  flush  came  over  Maggie's  face,  and  she  couldn't 


510  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

speak.     Stephen  saw  this.     He  sat  down  again,  taking;  her 
hand  in  his,  and  looking  at  her  with  passionate  entreaty. 

"  Maggie  !  Dearest !  If  you  love  me,  you  are  mine.  Whc 
can  have  so  great  a  claim  on  you  as  I  have  ?  My  life  is  bound 
up  in  your  love.  There  is  nothing  in  the  past  that  can  annul 
our  right  to  each  other :  it  is  the  first  time  we  have  either  of 
us  loved  with  our  whole  heart  and  soul." 

Maggie  was  still  silent  for  a  little  while  —  looking  down. 
Stephen  was  in  a  flutter  of  new  hope  :  he  was  going  to  triumph. 
But  she  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his  with  a  glance  that  was 
filled  with  the  anguish  of  regret  —  not  with  yielding. 

"  No  —  not  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul,  Stephen,"  she 
said,  with  timid  resolution.  "I  have  never  consented  to  it 
with  my  whole  mind.  There  are  memories,  and  affections, 
and  longings  after  perfect  goodness,  that  have  such  a  strong 
hold  on  me  ;  they  would  never  quit  me  for  long  ;  they  would 
come  back  and  be  pain  to  me  —  repentance.  I  could  n't  live 
in  peace  if  I  put  the  shadow  of  a  wilful  sin  between  myself 
and  God.  I  have  caused  sorrow  already  —  I  know  —  I  feel 
it ;  but  I  have  never  deliberately  consented  to  it :  I  have  never 
said,  'They  shall  suffer,  that  I  may  have  joy.'  It  has  never 
been  my  will  to  marry  you :  if  you  were  to  win  consent  from 
the  momentary  triumph  of  my  feeling  for  you,  you  would  not 
have  my  whole  soul.  If  I  could  wake  back  again  into  the 
time  before  yesterday,  I  would  choose  to  be  true  to  my  calmer 
affections,  and  live  without  the  joy  of  love." 

Stephen  loosed  her  hand,  and,  rising  impatiently,  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  in  suppressed  rage. 

"  Good  God !  "  he  burst  out  at  last,  "  what  a  miserable 
thing  a  woman's  love  is  to  a  man's !  I  could  commit  crimes 
for  you  —  and  you  can  balance  and  choose  in  that  way.  But 
you  don't  love  me  :  if  you  had  a  tithe  of  the  feeling  for  me 
that  I  have  for  you,  it  would  be  impossible  to  you  to  think 
for  a  moment  of  sacrificing  me.  But  it  weighs  nothing  with 
you  that  you  are  robbing  me  of  my  life's  happiness." 

Maggie  pressed  her  fingers  together  almost  convulsively  as 
she  held  them  clasped  on  her  lap.  A  great  terror  was  upon 
her,  as  if  she  were  ever  and  anon  seeing  where  she  stood  by 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  SH 

great  flashes  of  lightning,  and  then  again  stretched  forth  her 
hands  in  the  darkness. 

"  No  —  I  don't  sacrifice  you  —  I  could  n't  sacrifice  you,"  she 
said,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak  again;  "but  I  can't  believe  in 
a  good  for  you,  that  I  feel  —  that  we  both  feel  is  a  wrong  to- 
wards  others.  We  can't  choose  happiness  eitlier  for  ourselves 
or  for  another:  we  can't  tell  where  that  will  lie.  We  can 
only  choose  whether  we  will  indulge  ourselves  in  the  present 
moment,  or  whether  we  will  renounce  that,  for  the  sake  of 
obeying  the  divine  voice  within  us  —  for  the  sake  of  being 
true  to  all  the  motives  that  sanctify  our  lives.  I  know  this 
belief  is  hard  :  it  has  slipped  away  from  me  again  and  again  ; 
but  I  have  felt  that  if  I  let  it  go  forever,  I  should  have  no 
light  through  the  darkness  of  this  life." 

"But,  Maggie,"  said  Stephen,  seating  himself  by  her  again, 
"is  it  possible  you  don't  see  that  what  happened  yesterday 
has  altered  the  whole  position  of  things  ?  What  infatuation 
is  it  —  what  obstinate  prepossession  that  blinds  you  to  that  ? 
It  is  too  late  to  say  what  we  might  have  done  or  what  we 
ought  to  have  done.  Admitting  the  very  worst  view  of  what 
has  been  done,  it  is  a  fact  we  must  act  on  now ;  our  position 
is  altered ;  the  right  course  is  no  longer  Avhat  it  was  before. 
We  must  accept  our  own  actions  and  start  afresh  from 
them.  Suppose  we  had  been  married  yesterday  ?  It  is  nearly 
the  same  thing.  The  effect  on  others  would  not  have  been 
different.  It  would  only  have  made  this  difference  to  our- 
selves," Stephen  added,  bitterly,  "that  you  might  have 
acknowledged  then  that  your  tie  to  me  was  stronger  than 
to  others." 

Again  a  deep  flush  came  over  Maggie's  face,  and  she  was 
silent.  Stephen  thought  again  that  he  was  beginning  to  pre- 
vail —  he  had  never  yet  believed  that  he  should  7iot  prevail : 
there  are  possibilities  which  our  minds  shrink  from  too  com» 
pletely  for  us  to  fear  them. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  in  his  deepest,  tenderest  tone,  leaniuf 
towards  her,  and  putting  his  arm  round  her,  "you  are  mint 
now  —  the  world  believes  it  —  duty  must  spring  out  of  that 
now  ;  in  a  few  hours  you  will  be  legally  mine,  and  those  wh;D 


512  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

had  claims  on  us  will  submit  —  they  will  see  that  there  was  « 
force  which  declared  against  their  claims." 

Maggie's  eyes  opened  wide  in  one  terrified  look  at  the  face 
that  was  close  to  hers,  and  she  started  up  —  pale  again. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  it,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  almost  of  agony ; 
"  Stephen  —  don't  ask  me  —  don't  urge  me.  I  can't  argue  any 
longer  —  I  don't  know  what  is  wise  ;  but  my  heart  will  not 
(et  me  do  it.  I  see  —  I  feel  their  trouble  now  :  it  is  as  if  it 
were  branded  on  my  mind.  /  have  suffered,  and  had  no  one 
to  pity  me  ;  and  now  I  have  made  others  suffer.  It  would 
iiever  leave  me  ;  it  would  embitter  your  love  to  me.  I  do  care 
.tbr  Philip  —  in  a  different  way  :  I  remember  all  we  said  to 
each  other ;  I  know  how  he  thought  of  me  as  the  one  promise 
of  his  life.  He  was  given  to  me  that  I  might  make  his  lot  less 
hard ;  and  I  have  forsaken  him.  And  Lucy  —  she  has  been 
deceived  —  she  who  trusted  me  more  than  any  one.  I  cannot 
marry  you  :  I  cannot  take  a  good  for  myself  that  has  been 
wrung  out  of  their  misery.  It  is  not  the  force  that  ought  to 
rule  us  —  this  that  we  feel  for  each  other ;  it  would  rend  me 
away  from  all  that  my  past  life  has  made  dear  and  holy  to  me. 
I  can't  set  out  on  a  fresh  life,  and  forget  that :  I  must  go  back 
to  it,  and  cling  to  it,  else  I  shall  feel  as  if  there  were  nothing 
firm  beneath  my  feet." 

"  Good  God,  Maggie  ! "  said  Stephen,  rising  too  and  grasp- 
ing her  arm,  "  you  rave.  How  can  you  go  back  without  mar- 
rying me  ?  You  don't  know  what  will  be  said,  dearest.  You 
see  nothing  as  it  really  is." 

"  Yes,  I  do.  But  they  will  believe  me.  I  will  confess  every- 
thing. Lucy  will  believe  me  —  she  will  forgive  you,  and  — 
and  —  oh,  some  good  will  come  by  clinging  to  the  right.  Dear, 
dear  Stephen,  let  me  go  !  —  don't  drag  me  into  deeper  remorse. 
My  whole  soul  has  never  consented — it  does  not  consent 
now." 

Stephen  let  go  her  arm,  and  sank  back  on  his  chair,  half 
stunned  by  despairing  rage.  He  was  silent  a  few  moments, 
not  looking  at  her ;  while  her  eyes  were  turned  towards  him 
yearningly,  in  alarm  at  this  sudden  change.  At  last  he  said, 
still  without  looking  at  her  — 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  r,\:\ 

«  Go,  then  —  leave  me  —  don't  torture  me  any  longer I 

can't  bear  it." 

Involuntarily  she  leaned  towards  him  and  put  out  her  hand 
to  touch  his.  But  he  shrank  from  it  as  if  it  had  been  burning 
iron,  and  said  again  — 

-'  Leave  me." 

Maggie  was  not  conscious  of  a  decision  as  she  turned  away 
from  that  gloomy  averted  face,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  : 
it  was  like  an  automatic  action  that  fulfils  a  forgotten  inten- 
tion. What  came  after  ?  A  sense  of  stairs  descended  as  if 
in  a  dream  —  of  flagstones  —  of  a  chaise  and  horses  standing 
—  then  a  street,  and  a  turning  into  another  street  where  a 
stage-coach  was  standing,  taking  in  passengers  —  and  the  dart- 
ing thought  that  that  coach  would  take  her  away,  perhaps 
towards  home.  But  she  could  ask  nothing  yet ;  she  only  got 
into  the  coach. 

Home  —  where  her  mother  and  brother  were  —  Philip  — 
Lucy  —  the  scene  of  her  very  cares  and  trials  —  was  the  haven 
towards  which  her  mind  tended  —  the  sanctuary  where  sacred 
relics  lay  —  where  she  would  be  rescued  from  more  falling. 
The  thought  of  Stephen  was  like  a  horrible  throbbing  pain, 
which  yet,  as  such  pains  do,  seemed  to  urge  all  other  thoughts 
into  activity.  But  among  her  thoughts,  what  others  would 
say  and  think  of  her  conduct  was  hardly  present.  Love  and 
deep  pity  and  remorseful  anguish  left  no  room  for  that. 

The  coach  was  taking  her  to  York  —  farther  away  from 
home  ;  but  she  did  not  learn  that  until  she  was  set  down  in 
the  old  city  at  midnight.  It  was  no  matter  :  she  could  sleep 
there,  and  start  home  the  next  day.  She  had  her  purse  in 
her  pocket,  with  all  her  money  in  it  —  a  bank-note  and  a  sover- 
eign :  she  had  kept  it  in  her  pocket  from  forgetfulness,  after 
going  out  to  make  purchases  the  day  before  yesterday. 

Did  she  lie  down  in  the  gloomy  bedroom  of  the  old  inn  that 
night  with  her  will  bent  unwaveringly  on  the  path  of  penitent 
sacrifice  ?  The  great  struggles  of  life  are  not  so  easy  as  that ; 
the  great  problems  of  life  are  not  so  clear.  In  the  darkness  of 
that  night  she  saw  Stephen's  face  turned  towards  her  in  pas- 
sionate, reproachful  misery ;  she  lived  through  again  all  the 
VOL.  II.  23 


514  THE   MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

tremulous  delights  of  his  presence  with  her  that  made  exist- 
ence an  easy  floating  in  a  stream  of  joy,  instead  of  a  quiet 
resolved  endurance  and  effort.  The  love  she  had  renounced 
came  back  upon  her  with  a  cruel  charm,  she  felt  herself  open- 
ing her  arms  to  receive  it  once  more ;  and  then  it  seemed  to 
slip  away  and  fade  and  vanish,  leaving  only  the  dying  sound 
ot  &  deep  thrilling  voice  that  said,  "  Gone  —  forever  gone." 


BOOK    VII. 

THE  FINAL  RESCUK 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   RETURN    TO   THE   Mllilu 

Between  four  and  five  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth 
day  from  that  on  which  Stephen  and  Maggie  had  left  St. 
Ogg's,  Tom  Tiilliver  was  standing  on  the  gravel-walk  outside 
the  old  house  at  Dorlcote  Mill.  He  was  master  there  now  : 
he  had  half  fulfilled  his  father's  dying  wish,  and  by  years  of 
steady  self-government  and  energetic  work  he  had  brought 
himself  near  to  the  attainment  of  more  than  the  old  respecta- 
bility which  had  been  the  proud  inheritance  of  the  Dodsons 
and  TuUivers. 

But  Tom's  face,  as  he  stood  in  the  hot  still  sunshine  of  that 
summer  afternoon,  had  no  gladness,  no  triumph  in  it.  His 
mouth  wore  its  bitterest  expression,  his  severe  brow  its  liard- 
est  and  deepest  fold,  as  he  drew  down  his  hat  farther  over  his 
eyes  to  shelter  them  from  the  sun,  and,  thrusting  his  hands 
deep  into  his  pockets,  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  gravel. 
No  news  of  his  sister  had  been  heard  since  Bob  Jakin  liad 
come  back  in  the  steamer  from  Mudport,  and  put  an  end  to 
all  improbable  suppositions  of  an  accident  on  the  water  by 
stating  that  he  had  seen  her  land  from  a  vessel  with  l^Fr. 
Stephen  Guest.  Would  the  next  news  be  that  she  was  mar- 
ried —  or  what  ?  Probably  that  she  was  not  married :  Tom's 
mind  was  set  to  the  expectation  of  the  worst  tliat  could 
happen  —  not  death,  but  disgrace. 

As  he  was  walking  with  his  back  towards  the  entrance  gate, 
wad  his  face  towards  the  rushing  mill-stream,  a  tall  dark-eyed 


516  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

figure,  that  we  know  well,  approached  the  gate,  and  paused  to 
look  at  him,  with  a  fast-beating  heart.  Her  brother  was  the 
human  being  of  whom  she  had  been  most  afraid,  from  her 
childhood  upwards  :  afraid  with  that  fear  which  springs  in  us 
when  we  love  one  who  is  inexorable,  unbending,  unmodifiable 
—  with  a  mind  that  we  can  never  mould  ourselves  upon,  and 
yet  that  we  cannot  endure  to  alienate  from  us.  That  deep- 
rooted  fear  was  shaking  Maggie  now ;  but  her  mind  was  un- 
swervingly bent  on  returning  to  her  brother,  as  the  natural 
refuge  that  had  been  given  her.  In  her  deep  humiliation 
under  the  retrospect  of  her  own  weakness  —  in  her  anguish 
at  the  injury  she  had  inflicted  —  she  almost  desired  to  endure 
the  severity  of  Tom's  reproof,  to  submit  in  patient  silence 
to  that  harsh  disapproving  judgment  against  which  she  had  so 
often  rebelled :  it  seemed  no  more  than  just  to  her  now  — who 
was  weaker  than  she  was  ?  She  craved  that  outward  help  to 
her  better  purpose  which  would  come  from  complete,  submis- 
sive confession  —  from  being  in  the  presence  of  those  whose 
looks  and  words  would  be  a  reflection  of  her  own  conscience. 

Maggie  had  been  kept  on  her  bed  at  York  for  a  day  with 
that  prostrating  headache  which  was  likely  to  follow  on  the 
terrible  strain  of  the  previous  day  and  night.  There  was  an 
expression  of  physical  pain  still  about  her  brow  and  eyes,  and 
her  whole  appearance,  with  her  dress  so  long  unchanged,  was 
worn  and  distressed.  She  lifted  the  latch  of  the  gate  and 
walked  in  —  slowly.  Tom  did  not  hear  the  gate ;  he  was  just 
then  close  upon  the  roaring  dam :  but  he  presently  turned, 
and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  saw  the  figure  whose  worn  look  and 
loneliness  seemed  to  him  a  confirmation  of  his  worst  con- 
jectures. He  paused,  trembling  and  white  with  disgust  and 
indignation. 

Maggie  paused  too — three  yards  before  him.  She  felt  the 
hatred  in  his  face  :  felt  it  rushing  through  her  fibres  ;  but  she 
must  speak. 

"  Tom,"  she  began,  faintly,  "  I  am  come  back  to  you  —  I 
am  come  back  home  —  for  refuge  —  to  tell  you  everything." 

"  You  will  find  no  home  with  me,"  he  answered,  with  tremu- 
lous rage.     "You  have  disgraced  us  all.     You  have  disgraced 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  517 

my  father's  name.  You  have  been  a  curse  to  your  best  friends. 
You  have  been  base  —  deceitful ;  no  motives  are  strong  enough 
to  restrain  you.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you  forever.  You  don't 
belong  to  me." 

Their  mother  had  come  to  the  door  now.  She  stood  ])ara- 
lyzed  by  the  double  shock  of  seeing  Maggie  and  heariug  Tom's 
words. 

"Tom,"  said  Maggie,  with  more  courage,  "I  am  perhaps  not 
so  guilty  as  you  believe  me  to  be.  I  never  meant  to  give  way 
to  my  feelings.  I  struggled  against  tliem.  1  was  carried  too 
far  in  the  boat  to  come  back  on  Tuesday.  I  came  back  as  soon 
as  I  could." 

"I  can't  believe  in  you  any  more,"  said  Tom,  gradually 
passing  from  the  tremulous  excitement  of  the  lirst  moment  to 
cold  inflexibility.  "  You  have  been  carrying  on  a  clandestine 
relation  with  Stephen  Guest  —  as  you  did  before  with  another. 
He  went  to  see  you  at  my  aunt  Moss's  ;  you  walked  alone  with 
him  in  the  lanes ;  you  must  have  behaved  as  no  modest  girl 
would  have  done  to  her  cousin's  lover,  else  that  could  never 
have  happened.  The  people  at  Luckreth  saw  you  pass  —  you 
passed  all  the  other  places ;  you  knew  what  you  were  doing. 
You  have  been  using  Philip  Wakem  as  a  screen  to  deceive 
Lucy  —  the  kindest  friend  you  ever  had.  Go  and  see  the 
return  you  have  made  her  :  she's  ill — unable  to  speak  —  my 
mother  can't  go  near  her,  lest  she  should  remind  her  of  yow." 

Maggie  was  half  stunned — too  heavily  pressed  upon  by  her 
anguish  even  to  discern  any  difference  between  her  actual 
guilt  and  her  brother's  accusations,  still  less  to  vindicate 
herself. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  crushing  her  hands  together  under  her 
cloak,  in  the  effort  to  speak  again,  "  whatever  I  have  done,  I 
repent  it  bitterly.  I  want  to  make  amends.  I  will  endure 
anything.     I  want  to  be  kept  from  doing  wrong  again." 

"What  will  keep  you?"  said  Tom,  with  cruel  bitterness. 
"Not  religion;  not  your  natural  feelings  of  gratitude  and 
honor.  And  he  —  he  would  deserve  to  be  shot,  if  it  were 
not —  But  you  are  ten  times  worse  than  he  is.  I  loathe 
your  character  and  your  conduct.     You  struggled  with  your 


618  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

feelings,  you  say.  Yes  !  /  liave  had  feelings  to  struggle  with  j 
but  I  conquered  them.  I  have  had  a  harder  life  than  you 
have  had ;  but  I  have  found  my  comfort  in  doing  my  duty. 
But  I  will  sanction  no  such  character  as  yours :  the  world 
shall  know  tha.t  I  feel  the  diif erence  between  right  and  wrong. 
If  you  are  in  want,  I  will  provide  for  you  —  let  my  mother 
know.  But  you  shall  not  come  under  my  roof.  It  is  enough 
that  I  have  to  bear  the  thought  of  your  disgrace  :  the  sight  of 
you  is  hateful  to  me." 

Slowly  Maggie  was  turning  away  with  despair  in  her  heart. 
But  the  poor  frightened  mother's  love  leaped  out  now,  stronger 
than  all  dread. 

"  My  child !     I  '11  go  with  you.     You  've  got  a  mother." 

Oh  the  sweet  rest  of  that  embrace  to  the  heart-stricken 
Maggie !  More  helpful  than  all  wisdom  is  one  draught  of 
simple  human  pity  that  will  not  forsake  us. 

Tom  turned  and  walked  into  the  house. 

"  Come  in,  my  child,"  Mrs.  TuUiver  whispered.  "  He  '11 
let  you  stay  and  sleep  in  my  bed.  He  won't  deny  that  if  I 
ask   him." 

"  No,  mother,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  tone,  like  a  moan.  "  I 
will  never  go  in." 

"  Then  wait  for  me  outside.  I  '11  get  ready  and  come  with 
you." 

When  his  mother  appeared  with  her  bonnet  on,  Tom  came 
out  to  her  in  the  passage,  and  put  money  into  her  hands. 

"  My  house  is  yours,  mother,  always,"  he  said.  "  You  will 
come  and  let  me  know  everything  you  want  —  you  will  come 
back  to  me." 

Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  took  the  money,  too  frightened  to  say 
anything.  The  only  thing  clear  to  her  was  the  mother's  in- 
stinct, that  she  would  go  with  her  unhappy  child. 

Maggie  was  waiting  outside  the  gate ;  she  took  her  mother's 
hand,  and  they  walked  a  little  way  in  silence. 

"  Mother,"  said  Maggie,  at  last,  "  we  will  go  to  Luke's  cot- 
tage. Luke  will  take  me  in.  He  was  very  good  to  me  when 
I  was  a  little  girl." 

"  He 's  got  no  room  for  us,  my  dear,  now  ;  his  wife 's  got  so 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  519 

many  children.  I  don't  know  where  to  go,  if  it  is  n't  to  one 
o'  your  aunts ;  and  I  hardly  durst,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
quite  destitute  of  mental  resources  in  this  extremity. 

Maggie  was  silent  a  little  while,  and  then  said  — 

"  Let  us  go  to  Bob  Jakin's,  mother :  his  wife  will  have  room 
for  us,  if  they  have  no  other  lodger." 

So  they  went  on  their  way  to  St.  Ogg's  —  to  the  old  house 
by  the  river-side. 

Bob  himself  was  at  home,  with  a  heaviness  at  heart  which 
resisted  even  the  new  joy  and  pride  of  possessing  a  two 
months'  old  baby,  quite  the  liveliest  of  its  age  that  had  ever 
been  born  to  prince  or  packman.  He  would  perhaps  not  so 
thoroughly  have  understood  all  the  dubiousness  of  IMaggie's 
appearance  with  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  on  the  quay  at  Mudport 
if  he  had  not  witnessed  the  effect  it  produced  on  Tom  when 
he  went  to  report  it ;  and  since  then,  the  circumstances  which 
in  any  case  gave  a  disastrous  character  to  her  elopement,  had 
passed  beyond  the  more  polite  circles  of  St.  Ogg's,  and  had 
become  matter  of  common  talk,  accessible  to  the  grooms  and 
errand-boys.  So  that  when  he  opened  the  door  and  saw 
Maggie  standing  before  him  in  her  sorrow  and  weariness,  he 
had  no  questions  to  ask,  except  one  which  he  dared  only  ask 
himself,  where  was  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  ?  Bob,  for  his  part, 
hoped  he  might  be  in  the  warmest  department  of  an  asylum 
understood  to  exist  in  the  other  world  for  gentlemen  who  are 
likely  to  be  in  fallen  circumstances  there. 

The  lodgings  were  vacant,  and  both  Mrs.  Jakin  the  larger 
and  Mrs.  Jakin  the  less  were  commanded  to  make  all  things 
comfortable  for  "  the  old  Missis  and  the  young  Miss  "  —  alaa 
that  she  was  still  "  Miss " !  The  ingenious  Bob  was  sorely 
perplexed  as  to  how  this  result  could  have  come  about  —  how 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest  could  have  gone  away  from  her,  or  could 
have  let  her  go  away  from  him,  when  he  had  the  chance  of 
keeping  her  with  him.  But  he  was  silent,  and  would  not  allow 
his  wife  to  ask  him  a  question ;  would  not  present  himself  in  the 
room,  lest  it  should  appear  like  intrusion  and  a  wish  to  pry ; 
having  the  same  chivalry  towards  dark-eyed  Maggie,  as  in  the 
days  when  he  had  bought  her  the  memorable  present  of  books. 


520  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

But  after  a  day  or  two  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  gone  to  the  Mill 
again  for  a  few  hours  to  see  to  Tom's  household  matters.  Mag- 
gie had  wished  this  :  after  the  first  violent  outburst  of  feeling 
which  came  as  soon  as  she  had  no  longer  any  active  purpose 
to  fulfil,  she  was  less  in  need  of  her  mother's  presence  ;  she 
even  desired  to  be  alone  with  her  grief.  But  she  had  been 
solitary  only  a  little  while  in  the  old  sitting-room  that  looked 
on  the  river,  when  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  turning 
round  her  sad  face  as  she  said  "  Come  in,"  she  saw  Bob  enter 
with  the  baby  in  his  arms  and  Mumps  at  his  heels. 

"  We  '11  go  back,  if  it  disturbs  you,  Miss,"  said  Bob. 

'•'No,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  voice,  wishing  she  could 
smile. 

Bob,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  came  and  stood  before  her. 

"  You  see,  we  've  got  a  little  un,  Miss,  and  I  wanted  you  to 
look  at  it,  and  take  it  in  your  arms,  if  you  'd  be  so  good.  Por 
we  made  free  to  name  it  after  you,  and  it  'ud  be  better  for  your 
takin'  a  bit  o'  notice  on  it." 

Maggie  could  not  speak,  but  she  put  out  her  arms  to  receive 
the  tiny  baby,  while  Mumps  snuffed  at  it  anxiously,  to  ascer- 
tain that  this  transference  was  all  right.  Maggie's  heart  had 
swelled  at  this  action  and  speech  of  Bob's :  she  knew  well 
enough  that  it  was  a  way  he  had  chosen  to  show  his  sympathy 
and  respect. 

"  Sit  down,  Bob,"  she  said  presently,  and  he  sat  down  in  si- 
lence, finding  his  tongue  unmanageable  in  quite  a  new  fashion, 
refusing  to  say  what  he  wanted  it  to  say. 

"  Bob,"  she  said,  after  a  few  moments,  looking  down  at  the 
baby,  and  holding  it  anxiously,  as  if  she  feared  it  might  slip 
from  her  mind  and  her  fingers,  "I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of 
you." 

"  Don't  you  speak  so.  Miss,"  said  Bob,  grasping  the  skin  of 
Mumps's  neck  ;  "  if  there  's  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  I  should 
look  upon  it  as  a  day's  earnings." 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  Dr.  Kenn's,  and  ask  to  speak  to  him, 
and  tell  him  that  I  am  here,  and  should  be  very  grateful  if  he 
would  come  to  me  while  my  mother  is  away.  She  will  not 
come  back  till  evening" 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  621 

'<  Eh,  Miss  —  I  'd  do  it  in  a  minute  —  it  is  but  a  step  ;  but 
Dr.  Kenn's  wife  lies  dead  —  she 's  to  be  buried  to-morrow  — 
died  the  day  I  come  from  Mudport.  It 's  all  the  more  pity 
she  should  ha'  died  just  now,  if  you  want  him.  1  hardly  like 
to  go  a-nigh  him  yet." 

"  Oh  no,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  "  we  must  let  it  be  —  till  after 
a  few  days,  perhaps  —  when  you  hear  that  he  is  going  about 
again.  But  perhaps  he  may  be  going  out  of  town  —  to  a  dis- 
tance," she  added,  with  a  new  sense  of  despondency  at  this 
idea. 

"  Not  he,  Miss,"  said  Bob.  "  He  'II  none  go  away.  He  is  n't 
one  o'  them  gentlefolks  as  go  to  cry  at  waterin'-places  when 
their  wives  die  :  he  's  got  summat  else  to  do.  He  looks  fine 
an'  sharp  after  the  parish  —  he  does.  He  christened  the  little 
un ;  an'  he  was  at  me  to  know  what  I  did  of  a  Sunday,  as  I 
did  n't  come  to  church.  But  I  told  him  I  was  upo'  the  travel 
three  parts  o'  the  Sundays  —  an'  then  I  'm  so  used  to  bein'  on 
my  legs,  I  can't  sit  so  long  on  end  —  '  an'  lors,  sir,'  says  I,  '  a 
packman  can  do  wi'  a  small  'lowance  o'  church  :  it  tastes 
strong,'  says  I ;  'there  's  no  call  to  lay  it  on  thick.'  Eh,  Miss, 
how  good  the  little  un  is  wi'  you  !  It 's  like  as  if  it  knowed 
you  :  it  partly  does,  I  '11  be  bound  —  like  the  birds  know  the 
mornin'." 

Bob's  tongue  was  now  evidently  loosed  from  its  unwonted 
bondage,  and  might  even  be  in  danger  of  doing  more  work  than 
was  required  of  it.  But  the  subjects  on  which  he  longed  to 
be  informed  were  so  steep  and  difficult  of  approach,  that  his 
tongue  was  likely  to  run  on  along  the  level  rather  than  to  carry 
him  on  that  unbeaten  road.  He  felt  this,  and  was  silent  again 
for  a  little  while,  ruminating  much  on  the  possible  forms  in 
which  he  might  put  a  question.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  more 
timid  voice  than  usual  — 

''  Will  you  give  me  leave  to  ask  you  only  one  thing,  Miss  ?  " 

Maggie  was  rather  startled,  but  she  answered,  "  Yes,  Bob,  if 
it  is  about  myself  —  not  about  any  one  els"-" 

"  Well,  Miss,  it 's  this  :  Do  you  owe  anybody  a  grudge  ?  " 

"  No,  not  any  one,"  said  Maggie,  looking  up  at  him  inquir- 
ingly.     "Why?" 


, 


522  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  Oh,  lors,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  pinching  Mumps's  neck  harder 
than  ever.  "  I  wish  you  did  —  an'  'ud  tell  me  —  I  'd  leather 
him  till  I  could  n't  see  —  I  would  —  an'  the  Justice  might  do 
what  he  liked  to  me  arter." 

"Oh,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  smiling  faintly,  "you're  a  very 
good  friend  to  me.  But  I  should  n't  like  to  punish  any  one, 
even  if  they  'd  done  me  wrong ;  I  've  done  wrong  myself  too 
often." 

This  view  of  things  was  puzzling  to  Bob,  and  threw  more 
obscurity  than  ever  over  what  could  possibly  have  happened 
between  Stephen  and  Maggie.  But  further  questions  would 
have  been  too  intrusive,  even  if  he  could  have  framed  them 
suitably,  and  he  was  obliged  to  carry  baby  away  again  to  an 
expectant  mother. 

"  Happen  you  'd  like  Mumps  for  company,  Miss,"  he  said 
when  he  had  taken  the  baby  again.  "  He  's  rare  company  — 
Mumps  is  —  he  knows  iverything,  an'  makes  no  bother  about 
it.  If  I  tell  him,  he  '11  lie  before  you  an'  watch  you  —  as  still 
—  just  as  he  watches  my  pack.  You  'd  better  let  me  leave 
him  a  bit ;  he  '11  get  fond  on  you.  Lors,  it 's  a  fine  thing  to 
hev  a  dumb  brute  fond  on  you ;  it  '11  stick  to  you,  an'  make 
no  jaw." 

"  Yes,  do  leave  him,  please,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  think  I 
should  like  to  have  Mumps  for  a  friend," 

"  Mumps,  lie  down  there,"  said  Bob,  pointing  to  a  place  in 
front  of  Maggie,  "  and  niver  do  you  stir  till  you  're  spoke  to." 

Mumps  lay  down  at  once,  and  made  no  sign  of  restlessness^ 
when  his  master  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  11. 

ST.  ogg's  passes  judgment. 

It  was  soon  known  throughout  St.  Ogg's  that  Miss  Tullivei 
was  come  back  :  she  had  not,  then,  eloped  in  order  to  be 
married  to  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  —  at  all  events,  Mr.  Stephen 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  623 

Guest  had  not  married  her  —  which  came  to  the  same  thing, 
so  far  as  her  culpability  was  concerned.  We  judge  others 
according  to  results  ;  how  else  ?  —  not  knowing  the  process 
by  which  results  are  arrived  at.  If  Miss  Tulliver,  after  a  few 
months  of  well-chosen  travel,  had  returned  as  INIrs.  Stei.hen 
Guest  —  with  a  post-marital  trousseau,  and  all  the  advantages 
possessed  even  by  the  most  unwelcome  wife  of  an  only  son, 
public  opinion,  which  at  St.  Ogg's,  as  elsewhere,  always  knew 
what  to  think,  would  have  judged  in  strict  consistency  with 
those  results.  Public  opinion,  in  these  cases,  is  always  of  the 
feminine  gender  —  not  the  world,  but  the  world's  wife  :  and 
she  would  have  seen,  that  two  handsome  young  people  —  tlie 
gentleman  of  quite  the  first  family  in  St.  Ogg's  —  having 
found  themselves  in  a  false  position,  had  been  led  into  a 
course  which,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  highly  injudicious, 
and  productive  of  sad  pain  and  disappointment,  especially  to 
that  sweet  young  thing,  Miss  Deane.  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  had 
certainly  not  behaved  well ;  but  then,  young  men  were  liable 
to  those  sudden  infatuated  attachments  ;  and  bad  as  it  might 
seem  in  Mrs.  Stephen  Guest  to  admit  the  faintest  advances 
from  her  cousin's  lover  (indeed  it  had  been  said  that  she  was 
actually  engaged  to  young  Wakem  —  old  Wakem  himself  had 
mentioned  it),  still  she  was  very  young  —  "and  a  deformed 
young  man,  you  know  !  —  and  young  Guest  so  very  fascinat- 
ing ;  and,  they  say,  he  positively  worships  her  (to  be  sure,  that 
can't  last !)  and  he  ran  away  with  her  in  the  boat  quite  against 
her  will  —  and  what  could  she  do  ?  She  could  n't  come  l)ack 
then  :  no  one  would  have  spoken  to  her ;  and  how  very  well 
that  maize-colored  satinette  becomes  her  complexion!  It 
seems  as  if  the  folds  in  front  were  quite  come  in ;  several  of 
her  dresses  are  made  so  ;  —  they  say  he  thinks  nothing  too 
handsome  to  buy  for  her.  Poor  Miss  Deane  !  She  is  very 
pitiable;  but  then,  there  was  no  positive  engagement;  and 
the  air  at  the  coast  will  do  her  good.  After  all,  if  young 
Guest  felt  no  more  for  her  than  that,  it  was  better  for  her  not 
_to  marry  him.  What  a  wonderful  marriage  for  a  girl  like 
Miss  Tulliver  —  quite  romantic  !  Why,  young  Guest  will  put 
np  for  the  borough  at  the  next  election.     Kothing  like  com- 


524  THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

merce  nowadaj'S  !  That  young  Wakem  nearly  went  out  of  his 
mind  —  he  always  was  rather  queer ;  but  he  's  gone  abroad 
again  to  be  out  of  the  way  —  quite  the  best  thing  for  a  de- 
formed young  man.  Miss  Unit  declares  she  will  never  visit 
Mr,  and  Mrs.  Stephen  Guest  —  such  nonsense  !  pretending  to 
be  better  than  other  people.  Society  could  n't  be  carried  on 
if  we  inquired  into  private  conduct  in  that  way  —  and  Chris- 
tianity tells  us  to  think  no  evil  —  and  my  belief  is,  that  Miss 
Unit  had  no  cards  sent  her." 

But  the  results,  we  know,  were  not  of  a  kind  to  warrant 
this  extenuation  of  the  past.     Maggie  had  returned  without 
a  trousseau,  withovit  a  husband  —  in  that  degraded  and  out- 
cast condition  to  which  error  is  well  known  to  lead ;  and  the 
world's  wife,  with  that  fine  instinct  which  is  given  her  for  the 
preservation  of  Society,  saw  at  once  that  Miss  Tulliver's  con- 
duct had  been  of  the  most  aggravated  kind.     Could  anything 
be  more  detestable  ?     A  girl  so  much  indebted  to  her  friends 
—  whose  mother  as  well  as  herself  had  received  so  much  kin(J- 
ness  from  the  Deanes  —  to  lay  the  design  of  winning  a  young 
man's  affections  away  from  her  own  cousin,  who  had  behaved j 
like  a  sister  to  her  !     Winning  his  affections  ?     That  was  not 
the  phrase  for  such  a  girl  as  Miss  Tulliver  ;  it  would  h£,ve 
been  more  correct  to  say  that  she  had  been  actuated  by  m^ireJ 
unwomanly  boldness  and  unbridled  passion.     There  was  al-j 
ways   something   questionable    about   her.      That   connectioi 
with  young  Wakem,  which,  they  said,  had  been  carried  on  foi 
years,  looked  very  ill  —  disgusting,  in  fact !     But  with  a  gir| 
of  that  disposition  !  —  To  the  world's  wife  there  had  always 
been  something  in  Miss  Tulliver's  very  physiqrie  that  a  refinec 
instinct  felt  to  be  prophetic  of  harm.     As  for  poor  Mr.  Stephei 
Guest,  he  was  rather  pitiable  than  otherwise :  a  young  mai 
of  five-and-twenty  is  not  to  be  too  severely  judged  in  these 
cases  —  he  is  really  very  much  at  the  mercy  of  a  designing 
bold  girl.     And  it  was  clear  that  he  had  given  way  in  spite 
of  himself  :  he  had  shaken  her  off  as  soon  as  he  could  ;  in.| 
deed,  their  having  parted  so  soon  looked  very  black  indeed  ■ 
for  her.     To  be  sure,  he  had  written  a  letter,  laying  all  the 
blame  on  himself,  and  telling  the  story  in  a  romantic  fashioi 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  525 

so  as  to  try  and  make  her  appear  quite  innocent :  of  course 
he  would  do  that !  But  the  refined  instinet  of  the  world's 
wife  was  not  to  be  deceived:  provide,ntially  !  — else  what 
would  become  of  Society  ?  Why,  her  own  brother  had  turned 
her  from  his  door :  he  had  seen  enough,  you  might  be  sure, 
before  he  would  do  that.  A  truly  respectaljle  young  man  — 
Mr.  Tom  Tulliver  :  quite  likely  to  rise  in  the  world  !  His 
sister's  disgrace  was  naturally  a  heavy  blow  to  him.  It  was 
to  be  hoped  that  she  would  go  out  of  the  neighborhood  — to 
America,  or  anywhere  —  so  as  to  purify  the  air  of  St.  Ogg's 
from  the  taint  of  her  presence,  extremely  dangerous  to  daugh- 
ters there  !  Ko  good  could  happen  to  her  :  it  was  only  to  be 
hoped  she  would  repent,  and  that  God  would  have  mercy  on 
her:  he  had  not  the  care  of  Society  on  his  hands  —  as  the 
world's  wife  had. 

It  required  nearly  a  fortnight  for  fine  instinct  to  assure 
itself  of  these  inspirations ;  indeed,  it  was  a  whole  week  be- 
fore Stephen's  letter  came,  telling  his  father  the  facts,  and 
adding  that  he  was  gone  across  to  Holland  —  had  drawn  upon 
the  agent  at  Mudport  for  money  —  was  incapable  of  any 
resolution  at  present. 

Maggie,  all  this  while,  was  too  entirely  filled  with  a  more 
agonizing  anxiety  to  spend  any  thought  on  the  view  tliat  was 
being  taken  of  her  conduct  by  the  world  of  St.  Ogg's  :  anxiety 
about  Stephen  —  Lucy  —  Philip  —  beat  on  her  poor  heart  in 
a  hard,  driving,  ceaseless  storm  of  mingled  love,  remorse,  and 
pity.  If  she  had  thought  of  rejection  and  injustice  at  all,  it 
would  have  seemed  to  her  that  they  had  done  their  worst  — 
that  she  could  hardly  feel  any  stroke  from  them  intolerable 
since  the  words  she  had  heard  from  her  brother's  lips.  Across 
all  her  anxiety  for  the  loved  and  the  injured,  those  words 
shot  again  and  again,  like  a  horrible  pang  that  would  have 
brought  misery  and  dread  even  into  a  heaven  of  delights. 
The  idea  of  ever  recovering  happiness  never  glimmered  in  her 
mind  for  a  moment ;  it  seemed  as  if  every  sensitive  fibre  in 
her  were  too  entirely  preoccupied  by  pain  ever  to  vibrate 
again  to  another  influence.  Life  stretched  before  her  as  one 
act  of  penitence,  and  all  she  craved,  as  she  dwelt  on  her 


526  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

future  lot,  was  something  to  guarantee  her  from  more  falling : 
her  own  weakness  haunted  her  like  a  vision  of  hideous  possi-      J 
bilities,  that  made  no  peace  conceivable  except  such  as  lay  in 
the  sense  of  a  sure  refuge. 

But  she  was  not  without  practical  intentions :  the  love  of 
independence  was  too  strong  an  inheritance  and  a  habit  for 
her  not  to  remember  that  she  must  get  her  bread ;  and  when 
other  projects  looked  vague,  she  fell  back  on  that  of  returning 
to  her  plain  sewing,  and  so  getting  enough  to  pay  for  her 
lodging  at  Bob's.  She  meant  to  persuade  her  mother  to  return 
to  the  Mill  by-and-by,  and  live  with  Tom  again  ;  and  somehow 
or  other  she  would  maintain  herself  at  St.  Ogg's.  Dr.  Kenn 
would  perhaps  help  her  and  advise  her.  She  remembered  his 
parting  words  at  the  bazaar.  She  remembered  the  momentary 
feeling  of  reliance  that  had  sprung  in  her  when  he  was  talk- 
ing with  her,  and  she  waited  with  yearning  expectation  for 
the  opportunity  of  confiding  everything  to  him.  Her  mother 
called  every  day  at  Mr.  Deane's  to  learn  how  Lucy  was  :  the 
report  was  always  sad  —  nothing  had  yet  roused  her  from  the 
feeble  passivity  which  had  come  on  with  the  first  shock.  But 
of  Philip,  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  learned  nothing :  naturally,  no 
one  whom  she  met  would  speak  to  her  about  what  related  to 
her  daughter.  But  at  last  she  summoned  courage  to  go  and 
see  sister  Glegg,  who  of  course  would  know  everything,  and 
had  been  even  to  see  Tom  at  the  Mill  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's 
absence,  though  he  had  said  nothing  of  what  had  passed  on 
the  occasion.  1 

As  soon  as  her  mother  was  gone,  Maggie  put  on  her  bonnet. 
She  had  resolved  on  walking  to  the  Eectory  and  asking  to  see 
Dr.  Kenn:  he  was  in  deep  grief  —  but  the  grief  of  another 
does  not  jar  upon  us  in  such  circumstances.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  been  beyond  the  door  since  her  return ;  neverthe- 
less her  mind  was  so  bent  on  the  purpose  of  her  walk,  that  the 
unpleasantness  of  meeting  people  on  the  way,  and  being  stared 
at,  did  not  occur  to  her.  But  she  had  no  sooner  passed  beyond 
the  narrower  streets  which  she  had  to  thread  from  Bob's  dwell- 
ing, than  she  became  aware  of  unusual  glances  cast  at  her ;  and 
this  consciousness  made  her  hurry  along  nervously,  afraid  to 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  527 

look  to  right  or  left.  Presently,  liowevcr,  she  came  full  un 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Turnbull,  old  acquaintances  of  her  family  ;  they 
both  looked  at  her  strangely,  and  turned  a  little  aside  without 
speaking.  All  hard  looks  were  pain  to  Maggie,  but  her  self- 
reproach  was  too  strong  for  resentment :  no  wonder  they  will 
not  speak  to  me,  she  thought  —  they  are  very  fond  of  Lucy,  liut 
now  she  knew  that  she  was  about  to  pass  a  group  of  gentlemen, 
■who  were  standing  at  the  door  of  the  billiard-rooms,  and  she 
could  not  help  seeing  young  Torry  step  out  a  little  with  his 
glass  at  his  eye,  and  bow  to  her  with  that  air  of  nonchalance 
which  he  might  have  bestowed  on  a  friendly  barmaid.  Mag- 
gie's pride  was  too  intense  for  her  not  to  feel  that  sting,  even 
in  the  midst  of  her  sorrow ;  and  for  the  first  time  the  thought 
took  strong  hold  of  her  that  she  would  have  other  obloquy 
cast  on  her  besides  that  which  was  felt  to  be  due  to  her  breach 
of  faith  towards  Lucy.  But  she  was  at  the  Rectory  now ; 
there,  perhaps,  she  would  find  something  else  than  retribution. 
Retribution  may  come  from  any  voice :  the  hardest,  crudest, 
most  imbruted  urchin  at  the  street-corner  can  inflict  it :  surely 
help  and  pity  are  rarer  things  —  more  needful  for  the  righteous 
to  bestow. 

She  was  shown  up  at  once,  after  being  announced,  into  Dr. 
Kenn's  study,  where  he  sat  amongst  piled-up  books,  for  which 
he  had  little  appetite,  leaning  his  cheek  against  the  head  of 
his  youngest  child,  a  girl  of  three.  The  child  was  sent  away 
with  the  servant,  and  when  the  door  was  closed,  Dr.  Kenn 
said,  placing  a  chair  for  Maggie  — 

"  I  was  coming  to  see  you,  Miss  Tulliver ;  you  have  antici- 
pated me  ;  I  am  glad  you  did." 

Maggie  looked  at  him  with  her  childlike  directness  as  she 
had  done  at  the  bazaar,  and  said,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  every- 
thing." But  her  eyes  filled  fast  with  tears  as  she  said  it.  and 
all  the  pent-up  excitement  of  her  humiliating  walk  would  have 
its  vent  before  she  could  say  more. 

''  Do  tell  me  everything,"  Dr.  Kenn  said,  with  quiet  kind- 
ness in  his  grave  firm  voice.  "  Think  of  me  as  one  to  whom  a 
long  experience  has  been  granted,  which  may  enable  him  to 
help  you." 


528  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

In  rather  broken  sentences,  and  with  some  effort  at  first, 
but  soon  with  the  greater  ease  that  came  from  a  sense  of  relief 
in  the  confidence,  Maggie  told  the  brief  story  of  a  struggle 
that  must  be  the  beginning  of  a  long  sorrow.  Only  the  day 
before,  Dr.  Kenn  had  been  made  acquainted  with  the  contents 
of  Stephen's  letter,  and  he  had  believed  them  at  once,  without 
the  confirmation  of  Maggie's  statement.  That  involuntary 
plaint  of  hers,  "  Oh,  I  must  go,^'  had  remained  with  him  as  the 
sign  that  she  was  undergoing  some  inward  conflict. 

Maggie  dwelt  the  longest  on  the  feeling  which  had  made  her 
come  back  to  her  mother  and  brother,  which  made  her  cling  to 
all  the  memories  of  the  past.  When  she  had  ended.  Dr.  Kenn 
was  silent  for  some  minutes :  there  was  a  difficulty  on  his  mind. 
He  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  hearth  with  his  hands 
behind  him.  At  last  he  seated  himself  again,  and  said,  looking 
at  Maggie  — 

"Your  prompting  to  go  to  your  nearest  friends  — to  remain 
where  all  the  ties  of  your  life  have  been  formed  —  is  a  true 
prompting,  to  which  the  Church  in  its  original  constitution 
and  discipline  responds  —  opening  its  arms  to  the  penitent  — 
watching  over  its  children  to  the  last  —  never  abandoning 
them  until  they  are  hopelessly  reprobate.  And  the  Church 
ought  to  represent  the  feeling  of  the  community,  so  that  every 
parish  should  be  a  family  knit  together  by  Christian  brother- 
hood under  a  spiritual  father.  But  the  ideas  of  discipline  and 
Christian  fraternity  are  entirely  relaxed  —  they  can  hardly  be 
said  to  exist  in  the  public  mind  :  they  hardly  survive  except  in 
the  partial,  contradictory  form  they  have  taken  in  the  narrow 
communities  of  schismatics  ;  and  if  I  were  not  supported  by 
the  firm  faith  that  the  Church  must  ultimately  recover  the  full 
force  of  that  constitution  which  is  alone  fitted  to  human  needs, 
I  should  often  lose  heart  at  observing  the  want  of  fellowship 
and  sense  of  mutual  responsibility  among  my  own  flock.  At 
present  everything  seems  tending  towards  the  relaxation  of 
ties  —  towards  the  substitution  of  wayward  choice  for  the  ad- 
herence to  obligation,  which  has  its  roots  in  the  past.  Your 
conscience  and  your  heart  have  given  you  true  light  on  this 
point,  Miss  Tulliver  j  and  I  have  said  all  this  that  you  may 


THE   FINAL   RESCUE.  r^og 

know  what  my  wish  about  you  — what  my  advice  to  you — 
would  be,  if  they  sprang  from  my  own  feeling  and  opinion  un- 
modified by  counteracting  circumstances." 

Dr.  Kenn  paused  a  little  while.  There  was  an  entire  ab- 
sence of  effusive  benevolence  in  his  manner ;  there  was  some- 
thing almost  cold  in  the  gravity  of  his  look  and  voice.  If 
Maggie  had  not  known  that  his  benevolence  was  persevering 
in  proportion  to  its  reserve,  she  might  have  been  chilled  and 
frightened.  As  it  was,  she  listened  expectantly,  quite  sure 
that  there  would  be  some  effective  help  in  his  words.  He 
went  on. 

"Your  inexperience  of  the  world,  Miss  Tulliver,  prevents 
you  from  anticipating  fully  the  very  unjust  conceptions  that 
will  probably  be  formed  concerning  your  conduct — concep- 
tions which  will  have  a  baneful  effect,  even  in  spite  of  known 
evidence  to  disprove  them." 

"  Oh,  I  do  — I  begin  to  see,"  said  Maggie,  unable  to  repress 
this  utterance  of  her  recent  pain.  " I  know  I  shall  be  insulted- 
I  shall  be  thought  worse  than  I  am." 

"You  perhaps  do  not  yet  know,"  said  Dr.  Kenn,  with  a 
touch  of  more  personal  pity,  "that  a  letter  is  come  which 
ought  to  satisfy  every  one  who  has  known  anything  of  you, 
that  you  chose  the  steep  and  difficult  path  of  a  return  to 
the  right,  at  the  moment  when  that  return  was  most  of  all 
difficult." 

"  Oh  —  where  is  he  ?  "  said  poor  Maggie,  with  a  flush  and 
tremor  that  no  presence  could  have  hindered. 

"  He  is  gone  abroad :  he  has  written  of  all  that  passed  to 
his  father.  He  has  vindicated  you  to  the  utmost ;  and  I  hope 
the  communication  of  that  letter  to  your  cousin  will  have  a 
beneficial  effect  on  her." 

Dr.  Kenn  waited  for  her  to  get  calm  again  before  he  went  on. 

"  That  letter,  as  I  said,  ought  to  suffice  to  prevent  false  im- 
pressions concerning  you.  But  I  am  bound  to  tell  you.  Miss 
Tulliver,  that  not  only  the  experience  of  my  whole  life,  but 
my  observation  within  the  last  three  days,  makes  me  fear  that 
there  is  hardly  any  evidence  which  will  save  you  from  the 
painful  effect  of  false  imputations.     The  persons  who  are  th« 

TOL.    II.  '^ 


530  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

most  incapable  of  a  conscientious  struggle  such  as  yours,  are 
precisely  those  who  will  be  likely  to  shrink  from  you ;  because 
they  will  not  believe  in  your  struggle.  I  fear  your  life  here 
will  be  attended  not  only  with  much  pain,  but  with  many  ob- 
structions. For  this  reason  —  and  for  this  only  —  I  ask  you 
to  consider  whether  it  will  not  perhaps  be  better  for  you  to 
take  a  situation  at  a  distance,  according  to  your  former  inten- 
tion.    I  will  exert  myself  at  once  to  obtain  one  for  you." 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  but  stop  here  ! "  said  Maggie.  "  I  have  no 
heart  to  begin  a  strange  life  again.  I  should  have  no  stay.  I 
should  feel  like  a  lonely  wanderer  —  cut  off  from  the  past. 
I  have  written  to  the  lady  who  offered  me  a  situation  to  ex- 
cuse myself.  If  I  remained  here,  I  could  perhaps  atone  in 
some  way  to  Lucy  —  to  others  :  I  could  convince  them  that 
I  'm  sorry.  And,"  she  added,  with  some  of  the  old  proud  fire 
flashing  out,  "I  will  not  go  away  because  people  say  false 
things  of  me.  They  shall  learn  to  retract  them.  If  I  must 
go  away  at  last,  because  —  because  others  wish  it,  I  will  not 
go  now." 

"Well,"  said  Dr.  Kenn,  after  some  consideration,  "if  you 
determine  on  that,  Miss  Tulliver,  you  may  rely  on  all  the  in- 
fluence my  position  gives  me.  I  am  bound  to  aid  and  counte- 
nance you  by  the  very  duties  of  my  office  as  a  parish  priest. 
I  will  add,  that  personally  I  have  a  deep  interest  in  your  peace 
of  mind  and  welfare." 

"  The  only  thing  I  want  is  some  occupation  that  will  enable 
me  to  get  my  bread  and  be  independent,"  said  Maggie.  "  I 
shall  not  want  much.     I  can  go  on  lodging  where  I  am." 

"I  must  think  over  the  subject  maturely,"  said  Dr.  Kenn, 
"and  in  a  few  days  I  shall  be  better  able  to  ascertain  the 
general  feeling.  I  shall  come  to  see  you :  I  shall  bear  you  con- 
stantly in  mind." 

When  Maggie  had  left  him.  Dr.  Kenn  stood  ruminating  with 
his  hands  behind  him,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet,  under 
a  painful  sense  of  doubt  and  difficulty.  The  tone  of  Stephen's 
letter,  which  he  had  read,  and  the  actual  relations  of  all  the 
persons  concerned,  forced  upon  him  powerfully  the  idea  of  an 
ultimate  marriage  between  Stephen  and  Maggie  as  the  least 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  53I 

evil ;  and  the  impossibility  of  their  proximity  in  St.  O^r's  on 
any  other  supposition,  until  after  years  of  separation,  throw  an 
insurmountable  prospective  difficulty  over  ]\I aggie's  ^tay  tliere. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  entered  with  all  the  couiprehensiou  of  a 
man  who  had  known  spiritual  conflict,  and  lived  thi-ough  years 
of  devoted  service  to  his  fellow-men,  into  that  state  of  Maggie's 
heart  and  conscience  which  made  the  consent  to  the  marriage 
a  desecration  to  her :  her  conscience  must  not  be  tampered 
with  :  the  principle  on  which  she  had  acted  was  a  safer  guide 
than  any  balancing  of  consequences.  His  experience  told  liim 
that  intervention  was  too  dubious  a  responsibility  to  be  lightly 
incurred  :  the  possible  issue  either  of  an  endeavor  to  restore 
the  former  relations  with  Lucy  and  Philip,  or  of  counselling 
submission  to  this  irruption  of  a  new  feeling,  was  hidden  in  a 
darkness  all  the  more  impenetrable  because  each  immediate 
step  was  clogged  with  evil. 

The  great  problem  of  the  shifting  relation  between  passion 
and  duty  is  clear  to  no  man  who  is  capable  of  apprehending 
it :  the  question  whether  the  moment  has  come  in  which  a 
man  has  fallen  below  the  possibility  of  a  renunciation  that 
will  carry  any  efficacy,  and  must  accept  the  sway  of  a  passion 
against  which  he  had  struggled  as  a  trespass,  is  one  for  which 
we  have  no  master-key  that  will  fit  all  cases.  The  casuists 
have  become  a  byword  of  reproach ;  but  their  perverted  spirit 
of  minute  discrimination  was  the  shadow  of  a  truth  to  which 
eyes  and  hearts  are  too  often  fatally  sealed  —  the  truth,  that 
moral  judgments  must  remain  false  and  hollow,  unless  they 
are  checked  and  enlightened  by  a  perpetual  reference  to  the 
special  circumstances  that  mark  the  individual  lot. 

All  people  of  broad,  strong  sense  have  an  instinctive  repug- 
nance to  the  men  of  maxims ;  because  such  people  early  dis- 
cern that  the  mysterious  complexity  of  our  life  is  not  to  be 
embraced  by  maxims,  and  that  to  lace  ourselves  up  in  formulas 
of  that  sort  is  to  repress  all  the  divine  promptings  and  inspira- 
tions that  spring  from  growing  insight  and  sympathy.  And 
the  man  of  maxims  is  the  popular  representative  of  the  minds 
that  are  guided  in  their  moral  judgment  solely  by  general 
rules,  thinking  that  these  will  lead  them  to  justice  by  a  ready- 


532  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

made  patent  method,  without  the  trouble  of  exerting  patience, 
discrimination,  impartiality  —  without  any  care  to  assure  them- 
selves whether  they  have  the  insight  that  comes  from  a  hardly- 
earned  estimate  of  temptation,  or  from  a  life  vivid  and  intense 
enough  to  have  created  a  wide  fellow-feeling  with  all  that  is 
human. 


CHAPTER  III. 

SHOWING   THAT    OLD    ACQUAINTANCES    ARE    CAPABLE     OF 

SURPRISING   US. 

When  Maggie  was  at  home  again,  her  mother  brought  her 
news  of  an  unexpected  line  of  conduct  in  aunt  Glegg.  As 
long  as  Maggie  had  not  been  heard  of,  Mrs.  Glegg  had  half 
closed  her  shutters  and  drawn  down  her  blinds :  she  felt  as- 
sured that  Maggie  was  drowned :  that  was  far  more  probable 
than  that  her  niece  and  legatee  should  have  done  anything  to 
wound  the  family  honor  in  the  tenderest  point.  When  at  last 
she  learned  from  Tom  that  Maggie  had  come  home,  and  gath- 
ered from  him  what  was  her  explanation  of  her  absence,  she 
burst  forth  in  severe  reproof  of  Tom  for  admitting  the  worst 
of  his  sister  until  he  was  compelled.  If  you  were  not  to  stand 
by  your  "  kin  "  as  long  as  there  was  a  shred  of  honor  attribu 
table  to  them,  pray  what  were  you  to  stand  by  ?  Lightly  to 
admit  conduct  in  one  of  your  own  family  that  would  force 
you  to  alter  your  will,  had  never  been  the  way  of  the  Dod- 
sons ;  and  though  Mrs.  Glegg  had  always  augured  ill  of  Mag- 
gie's future  at  a  time  when  other  peojjle  were  perhaps  less 
clear-sighted,  yet  fair-play  was  a  jewel,  and  it  was  not  for  her 
own  friends  to  help  to  rob  the  girl  of  her  fair  fame,  and  to 
cast  her  out  from  family  shelter  to  the  scorn  of  the  outer 
world,  until  she  had  become  unequivocally  a  family  disgrace. 
The  circumstances  were  unprecedented  in  Mrs.  Glegg's  ex- 
perience —  nothing  of  that  kind  had  happened  among  the 
Dodsons  before ;  but  it  was  a  case  in  which  her  hereditary 
rectitude  and  personal  strength  of  character  found  a  common 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  583 

channel  along  with  her  fundamental  ideas  of  clanship,  as  they 
did  in  her  lifelong  regard  to  equity  in  money  matters.  She 
quarrelled  with  Mr.  Glegg,  whose  kindness,  flowing  entirely 
into  compassion  for  Lucy,  made  him  as  hard  in  his  judgment 
of  Maggie  as  Mr.  Deane  himself  was  ;  and,  fuming  against  her 
sister  Tulliver  because  she  did  not  at  once  come  to  her  for 
advice  and  help,  shut  herself  up  in  her  own  room  with  Bax- 
ter's '  Saints'  Rest '  from  morning  till  night,  denying  herself 
to  all  visitors,  till  Mr.  Glegg  brought  from  Mr.  Deane  the 
news  of  Stephen's  letter.  Then  Mrs.  Glegg  felt  that  she  had 
adequate  fighting-ground  —  then  she  laid  aside  Baxter,  and 
was  ready  to  meet  all  comers.  While  Mrs.  Pullet  could  do 
nothing  but  shake  her  head  and  cry,  and  wish  that  cousin 
Abbot  had  died,  or  any  number  of  funerals  had  happened 
rather  than  this,  which  had  never  happened  before,  so  that 
there  was  no  knowing  how  to  act,  and  Mrs.  Pullet  could  never 
enter  St.  Ogg's  again,  because  "  acquaintances  "  knew  of  it  all, 
—  Mrs.  Glegg  only  hoped  that  Mrs.  Wooll,  or  any  one  else, 
would  come  to  her  with  their  false  tales  about  her  own  niece, 
and  she  would  know  what  to  say  to  that  ill-advised  person ! 

Again  she  had  a  scene  of  remonstrance  with  Tom,  all  the 
more  severe  in  proportion  to  the  greater  strength  of  her  pres- 
ent position.  But  Tom,  like  other  immovable  things,  seemed 
only  the  more  rigidly  fixed  under  that  attempt  to  shake  him. 
Poor  Tom !  he  judged  by  what  he  had  been  able  to  see  ;  and 
the  judgment  was  painful  enough  to  himself.  He  thought  he 
had  the  demonstration  of  facts  observed  through  years  by  his 
own  eyes  which  gave  no  warning  of  their  imperfection,  that 
Maggie's  nature  was  utterly  untrustworthy,  and  too  strongly 
marked  with  evil  tendencies  to  be  safely  treated  with  len- 
iency :  he  would  act  on  that  demonstration  at  any  cost ;  but 
the  thought  of  it  liiade  his  days  bitter  to  him.  Tom,  like 
every  one  of  us,  was  imprisoned  within  the  limits  of  his  own 
nature,  and  his  education  had  simply  glided  over  him,  leaving 
a  slight  deposit  of  polish  :  if  you  are  inclined  to  be  severe  on 
his  severity,  remember  that  the  responsibility  of  tolerance  lies 
with  those  who  have  the  wider  vision.  There  had  arisen  in 
Tom  a  repulsion  towards  Maggie  that  derived  its  very  inten- 


534  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

sity  from  their  early  claildish  love  in  the  time  when  they  had 
clasped  tiny  lingers  together,  and  their  later  sense  of  nearness 
in  a  common  duty  and  a  common  sorrow  :  the  sight  of  her,  as 
he  had  told  her,  was  hateful  to  him.  In  this  branch  of  the 
Dodson  family  aunt  Glegg  found  a  stronger  nature  than  her 
own  —  a  nature  in  which  family  feeling  had  lost  the  character 
of  clanship  by  taking  on  a  doubly  deep  dye  of  personal  pride. 
Mrs.  Glegg  allowed  that  Maggie  ought  to  be  punished  —  she 
was  not  a  woman  to  deny  that  —  she  knew  what  conduct  was; 
but  punished  in  proportion  to  the  misdeeds  proved  against 
her,  not  to  those  which  were  cast  upon  her  by  people  outside 
her  own  family,  who  might  wish  to  show  that  their  own  kin 
were  better. 

"Your  aunt  Glegg  scolded  me  so  as  niver  was,  my  dear," 
said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  when  she  came  back  to  Maggie,  "as 
I  did  n't  go  to  her  before  —  she  said  it  was  n't  for  her  to  come 
to  me  first.  But  she  spoke  like  a  sister,  too:  having  she 
allays  was,  and  hard  to  please  —  oh  dear !  —  but  she 's  said 
the  kindest  word  as  has  ever  been  spoke  by  you  yet,  my  child. 
For  she  says,  for  all  she  's  been  so  set  again'  having  one  extry 
in  the  house,  and  making  extry  spoons  and  things,  and  put- 
ting her  about  m  her  ways,  you  shall  have  a  shelter  in  her 
house,  if  you  '11  go  to  her  dutiful,  and  she  '11  uphold  you 
against  folks  as  say  harm  of  you  when  they  've  no  call.  And 
I  told  her  I  thought  you  could  n't  bear  to  see  anybody  but  me, 
you  were  so  beat  down  with  trouble;  but  she  said,  'J  won't 
throw  ill  words  at  her  —  there  's  them  out  o'  th'  family  'nil  be 
ready  enough  to  do  that.  But  I  '11  give  her  good  advice  ;  an' 
she  must  be  humble.'  It 's  wonderful  o'  Jane ;  for  I  'm  sure 
she  used  to  throw  everything  I  did  wrong  at  me  —  if  it  was 
the  raisin-wine  as  turned  out  bad,  or  the  pies  too  hot  —  or 
whativer  it  was." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  poor  Maggie,  shrinking  from  the  thought 
of  all  the  contact  her  bruised  mind  would  have  to  bear,  "  tell 
her  I  'm  very  grateful  —  I  '11  go  to  see  her  as  soon  as  I  can ; 
but  I  can't  see  any  one  just  yet,  except  Dr.  Kenn.  I  've  been 
to  him  —  he  will  advise  me,  and  help  me  to  get  some  occupa" 
tion.     I  can't  live  with  any  one,  or  be  dependent  on  them,  tell 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  mt) 

aunt  Glegg;  I  must  get  my  own  bread.     But  did  you  Lear 
nothing  of  Philip  — Philip  Wakem  ?     Have  you  never  seen 

any  one  that  has  mentioned  him  ?  " 

"No,  my  dear:  but  I've  been  to  Lucy's,  and  I  saw  your 
uncle,  and  he  says  they  got  her  to  listen  to  the  letter,  and  sljc 
took  notice  o'  Miss  Guest,  and  asked  questions,  and  the  doetor 
thinks  she  's  on  the  turn  to  be  better.  What  a  world  this  is 
—  what  trouble,  oh  dear !  The  law  was  the  first  beginning, 
and  it 's  gone  from  bad  to  worse,  all  of  a  sudden,  just  when 
the  luck  seemed  on  the  turn."  This  was  the  first  lamentation 
that  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  let  slip  to  Maggie,  but  old  habit  had 
been  revived  by  the  interview  with  sister  Glegg. 

"My  poor,  poor  mother!"  Maggie  burst  out,  cut  to  the 
heart  with  pity  and  compunction,  and  throwing  her  arms 
round  her  mother's  neck,  "  I  was  always  naughty  and  trouble^ 
some  to  you.  And  now  you  might  have  been  happy  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  me." 

"Eh,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  leaning  towards  the 
warm  young  cheek ;  "  I  must  put  up  wi'  my  children  —  I  shall 
never  have  no  more ;  and  if  they  bring  me  bad  luck,  I  must  be 
fond  on  it  —  there 's  nothing  else  much  to  be  fond  on,  for  my 
furnitur'  went  long  ago.  And  you  'd  got  to  be  very  good 
once ;  I  can't  think  how  it 's  turned  out  the  wrong  way  so ! " 

Still  two  or  three  more  days  passed,  and  Maggie  heard  noth- 
ing of  Philip ;  anxiety  about  him  was  becoming  her  predomi- 
nant trouble,  and  she  summoned  courage  at  last  to  inquire 
about  him  of  Dr.  Kenn,  on  his  next  visit  to  her.  He  did  not 
even  know  if  Philip  was  at  home.  The  elder  Wakem  was 
made  moody  by  an  accumulation  of  annoyance :  the  disappoint- 
ment in  this  young  Jetsome,  to  whom,  apparently,  he  was  a 
good  deal  attached,  had  been  followed  close  by  the  catastrophe 
to  his  son's  hopes  after  he  had  done  violence  to  his  own  strong 
feeling  by  conceding  to  them,  and  had  incautiously  mentioned 
this  concession  in  St.  Ogg's,  —  and  he  was  almost  fierce  in  his 
brusqxieness  when  any  one  asked  him  a  question  about  his  soa 
But  Philip  could  hardly  have  been  ill,  or  it  would  have  been 
known  through  the  calling  in  of  the  medical  man  ;  it  was  prob- 
able that  he  was  gone  out  of  the  town  for  a  little  while.    Maggie 


536  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

sickened  under  this  suspense,  and  her  imagination  began  to 
live  more  and  more  persistently  in  what  Philip  was  enduring. 
What  did  he  believe  about  her  ? 

At  last  Bob  brought  her  a  letter,  without  a  post-mark,  di- 
rected in  a  hand  which  she  knew  familiarly  in  the  letters  of  her 
own  name  —  a  hand  in  which  her  name  had  been  written  long 
ago,  in  a  pocket  Shakespeare  which  she  possessed.  Her  mother 
was  in  the  room,  and  Maggie,  in  violent  agitation,  hurried  up- 
stairs that  she  might  read  the  letter  in  solitude.  She  read  it 
with  a  throbbing  brow. 

"  Maggie,  —  I  believe  in  you  —  I  know  you  never  meant  to  deceive 
me  —  I  know  you  tried  to  keep  faith  to  me,  and  to  all.  I  believed  this 
before  I  had  any  othei-  evidence  of  it  than  your  own  nature.  The 
night  after  I  last  parted  from  you  I  suffered  torments.  I  had  seen 
what  convinced  me  that  you  were  not  free;  that  there  was  another 
whose  presence  had  a  power  over  you  which  mine  never  possessed; 
but  through  all  the  suggestions  —  almost  murderous  suggestions  —  of 
rage  and  jealousy,  my  mind  made  its  way  to  believe  in  your  truthful- 
ness. I  was  sure  that  you  meant  to  cleave  to  me,  as  you  had  said; 
that  you  had  rejected  him ;  that  you  struggled  to  renounce  him,  for 
Lucy's  sake  and  for  mine.  But  I  could  see  no  issue  that  was  not 
fatal  for  you  ;  and  that  dread  shut  out  the  very  thought  of  resignation. 
I  foresaw  that  he  would  not  relinquish  you,  and  I  believed  then,  as  1 
believe  now,  that  the  strong  attraction  which  drew  you  together  pro- 
ceeded only  from  one  side  of  your  characters,  and  belonged  to  that  par- 
tial, divided  action  of  our  nature  which  makes  half  the  tragedy  of  the 
human  lot.  I  have  felt  the  vibration  of  chords  in  your  nature  that  I 
have  continually  felt  the  want  of  in  his.  But  perhaps  I  am  wrong; 
perhaps  I  feel  about  you  as  the  artist  does  about  the  scene  over  which 
his  soul  has  brooded  with  love :  he  would  tremble  to  see  it  confided  to 
other  hands ;  he  would  never  believe  that  it  could  bear  for  another  all 
the  meaning    ad  the  beauty  it  bears  for  him. 

"  I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  see  you  that  morning:  I  was  filled  with 
selfish  passion ;  I  was  shattered  by  a  night  of  conscious  delirium.  ' 
told  you  long  ago  that  I  had  never  been  resigned  even  to  the  medict- 
rity  of  my  powers:  how  could  I  be  resigned  to  the  loss  of  the  one  thing 
which  had  ever  come  to  me  on  earth,  with  the  promise  of  such  deep 
joy  as  would  give  a  new  and  blessed  meaning  to  the  foregoing  pain  — 
the  promise  of  another  self  that  would  lift  my  aching  affection  into  the 
divine  rapture  of  an  ever-springing,  ever-satisfied  want  ? 


I 


THE   FINAL   RESCTJE.  537 

"But  the  miseries  of  that  night  had  prepared  me  for  what  came 
before  the  next.  It  was  no  surprise  to  me.  I  was  certain  that  he  had 
prevailed  on  you  to  sacrifice  everything  to  him,  and  I  waited  with 
equal  certainty  to  hear  of  your  marriage.  I  measured  your  love  and 
his  by  my  own.  But  I  was  wrong,  Maggie.  There  Is  something 
stronger  in  you  than  your  love  for  him. 

"  1  will  not  tell  you  what  I  went  tln-ough  in  that  interval.  But  even 
in  its  utmost  agony  —  even  in  those  terrible  throes  that  love  must  suf- 
fer before  it  can  be  disembodied  of  selfish  desire  —  my  love  for  you 
sufficed  to  withhold  me  from  suicide,  witliout  the  aid  of  any  other  mo- 
tive. In  the  midst  of  my  egoism,  I  yet  could  not  bear  to  come  like  a 
death-shadow  across  the  feast  of  your  joy.  I  could  not  bear  to  forsake 
the  world  in  which  you  still  lived  and  miglit  need  me;  it  was  part  of 
the  faith  I  had  vowed  to  you  —  to  wait  and  endure.  Maggie,  that  is  a 
proof  of  what  I  write  now  to  assure  you  of  —  that  no  anguish  I  have 
had  to  bear  on  your  account  has  been  too  heavy  a  price  to  pay  for  the 
new  life  into  which  I  have  entered  in  loving  you.  I  want  you  to  put 
aside  all  grief  because  of  the  grief  you  have  caused  me.  I  was  nur- 
tured in  the  sense  of  privation;  I  never  expected  happiness;  and  in 
knowing  you,  in  loving  you,  I  have  had,  and  still  have,  what  recon- 
ciles me  to  life.  You  have  been  to  my  affections  what  light,  what 
color  is  to  my  eyes  —  what  music  is  to  the  inward  ear;  you  have  raised 
a  dim  unrest  into  a  vivid  consciousness.  The  new  life  I  have  found  in 
caring  for  your  joy  and  sorrow  more  than  for  what  is  directly  my  own, 
has  transformed  the  spirit  of  rebellious  murmuring  into  that  willing  en- 
durance which  is  the  birth  of  strong  sympathy.  I  think  nothing  but 
such  complete  and  intense  love  could  have  initiated  me  into  that  en- 
larged life  which  grows  and  grows  by  appropriating  the  life  of  others; 
for  before,  I  was  always  dragged  back  from  it  by  ever-present  painful 
self-consciousness.  I  even  think  sometimes  that  this  gift  of  traus- 
ferj-ed  life  which  has  come  to  me  in  loving  you,  may  be  a  new  power 
to  me. 

"  Then  —  dear  one  — in  spite  of  all,  you  have  been  the  blessing  of 
my  life.  Let  no  self-reproach  weigh  on  you  because  of  me.  It  is  I  who 
should  rather  reproach  myself  for  having  urged  my  feelings  upon  you, 
and  hurried  you  into  words  that  you  have  felt  as  fetters.  You  meant 
to  be  true  to  those  words;  you  have  been  true.  I  can  measure  your 
sacrifice  by  what  I  have  known  in  only  one  half-hour  of  your  presence 
with  me,  when  I  dreamed  that  you  might  love  me  best.  But,  Maggie,  I 
have  no  just  claim  on  you  for  more  than  affectionate  remembrance. 

"  For  some  time  I  have  shrunk  from  writing  to  you.  because  I  have 
shrunk  even  from  the  appearance  of  wishing  to  thrust  myself  before 


638  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS- 

you,  and  so  repeating  my  original  error.  But  you  will  not  miscon- 
strue me.  I  know  that  we  must  keep  apart  for  a  long  while;  cruel 
tcmgues  would  force  us  apart,  if  nothing  else  did.  But  I  shall  not  go 
away.  The  place  where  you  are  is  the  one  where  my  mind  must  live, 
wherever  I  might  travel.  And  remember  that  I  am  unchangeably 
yours:  yours  — not  with  selfish  wishes,  but  with  a  devotion  that  ex- 
cludes such  wishes. 

"God  comfort  you,  —  my  loving,  large-souled  Maggie.  If  every 
one  else  has  misconceived  you,  remember  that  you  have  never  been 
doubted  by  him  whose  heart  recognized  you  ten  years  ago. 

"Do  not  believe  any  one  who  says  I  am  ill,  because  I  am  not  seen 
out  of  doors.  I  have  only  had  nervous  headaches  —  no  worse  than 
I  have  sometimes  had  them  before.  But  the  overpowering  heat  in- 
clines me  to  be  perfectly  quiescent  in  the  daytime.  I  am  strong 
enough  to  obey  any  word  which  shall  tell  me  that  I  can  serve  you  by 
word  or  deed. 

"  Yours  to  the  last, 

"Philip  Wakem." 

As  Maggie  knelt  by  the  bed  sobbing,  with  that  letter  pressed 
under  her,  her  feelings  again  and  again  gathered  themselves 
in  a  whispered  cry,  always  in  the  same  words  :  — 

"  Oh,  God,  is  there  any  happiness  in  love  that  could  make 
me  forget  their  pain  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MAGGIE   AND   LUCY. 

Bt  the  end  of  the  week  Dr.  Kenn  had  made  up  Ms  mind 
that  there  was  only  one  way  in  which  he  could  secure  to  Mag- 
gie a  suitable  living  at  St.  Ogg's.  Even  with  his  twenty  years' 
experience  as  a  parish  priest,  he  was  aghast  at  the  obstinate 
continuance  of  imputations  against  her  in  the  face  of  evidence. 
Hitherto  he  had  been  rather  more  adored  and  appealed  to  than 
was  quite  agreeable  to  him ;  but  now,  in  attempting  to  open 
the  ears  of  women  to  reason,  and  their  consciences  to  justice, 
on  behalf  of  Maggie  Tulliver,  he  suddenly  found  himself  as 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  639 

powerless  as  he  was  aware  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  at- 
tempted to  influence  the  shape  of  bonnets.  Dr.  Keun  could 
not  be  contradicted;  he  was  listened  to  in  silence;  but  when 
he  left  the  room,  a  comparison  of  opinions  among  his  hearer* 
yielded  much  the  same  result  as  before.  Miss  Tulliver  had 
undeniably  acted  in  a  blamablo  manner;  even  Dr.  Kenn  did 
not  deny  that :  how,  then,  could  he  think  so  lisbtly  of  her  as 
to  put  that  favorable  interpretation  on  everytliing  she  had 
done  ?  Even  on  the  supposition  that  required  the  utmost 
stretch  of  belief — namely,  that  none  of  the  things  said  about 
Miss  Tulliver  were  true  —  still,  since  they  had  been  said  about 
her,  they  had  cast  an  odor  round  her  which  must  cause  her  to 
be  shrunk  from  by  every  woman  who  had  to  take  care  of  her 
own  reputation  —  and  of  Society.  To  have  taken  Maggie  by 
the  hand  and  said,  "  I  will  not  believe  unproved  evil  of  you : 
my  lips  shall  not  utter  it ;  my  ears  shall  be  closed  against  it ; 
I,  too,  am  an  erring  mortal,  liable  to  stumble,  apt  to  come 
short  of  my  most  earnest  efforts ;  your  lot  has  been  harder 
than  mine,  your  temptation  greater;  let  us  help  each  other  to 
stand  and  walk  without  more  falling;" — to  have  done  this 
"would  have  demanded  courage,  deep  pity,  self-knowledge,  gen- 
erous trust  —  would  have  demanded  a  mind  that  tasted  no 
piquancy  in  evil-speaking,  that  felt  no  self-exaltation  in  con- 
demning, that  cheated  itself  with  no  large  words  into  the  belief 
that  life  can  have  any  moral  end,  any  high  religion,  which  ex- 
cludes the  striving  after  perfect  truth,  justice,  and  love  towards 
the  individual  men  and  women  who  come  across  our  own  path. 
The  ladies  of  St.  Ogg's  were  not  beguiled  by  any  wide  specula- 
tive conceptions ;  but  they  had  their  favorite  abstraction,  called 
Society^  which  served  to  make  their  consciences  perfectly  easy 
in  doing  what  satisfied  their  own  egoism  —  thinking  and  speak- 
ing the  worst  of  Maggie  Tulliver,  and  turning  their  backs  upon 
her.  It;  was  naturally  disappointing  to  Dr.  Kenn,  after  two 
years  of  superfluous  incense  from  his  feminine  parishioners, 
to  find  them  suddenly  maintaining  their  views  in  opposition 
to  his;  but  then,  they  maintained  them  in  opposition  to  a 
Higher  Authority,  which  they  had  venerated  longer.  That 
Authority  had  furnished  a  very  explicit  answer  to  persons  who 


540  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

might  inquire  where  their  social  duties  began,  and  might  hb 
inclined  to  take  wide  views  as  to  the  starting-point.  The  an- 
swer had  not  turned  on  the  ultimate  good  of  Society,  but  on 
"  a  certain  man  "  who  was  found  in  trouble  by  the  wayside. 

Not  that  St.  Ogg's  was  empty  of  women  with  some  tender- 
ness of  heart  and  conscience  :  probably  it  had  as  fair  a  propor- 
fcion  of  human  goodness  in  it  as  any  other  small  trading  town 
of  that  day.  But  until  every  good  man  is  brave,  we  must  expect 
to  find  many  good  women  timid  :  too  timid  even  to  believe  in 
the  correctness  of  their  own  best  promptings,  when  these  would 
place  them  in  a  minority.  And  the  men  at  St.  Ogg's  were  not 
all  brave  by  any  means  :  some  of  them  were  even  fond  of  scan- 
dal —  and  to  an  extent  that  might  have  given  their  conversa- 
tion an  effeminate  character,  if  it  had  not  been  distinguished 
by  masculine  jokes,  and  by  an  occasional  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
at  the  mutual  hatred  of  women.  It  was  the  general  feeling  of 
the  masculine  mind  at  St.  Ogg's  that  women  were  not  to  be 
interfered  with  in  their  treatment  of  each  other. 

And  thus  every  direction  in  which  Dr.  Kenn  had  turned 
in  the  hope  of  procuring  some  kind  recognition  and  some  em- 
ployment for  Maggie,  proved  a  disappointment  to  him.  Mrs. 
James  Torry  could  not  think  of  taking  Maggie  as  a  nursery 
governess,  even  temporarily  —  a  young  woman  about  whom 
"  such  things  had  been  said,"  and  about  whom  "  gentlemen 
joked ; "  and  Miss  Kirke,  who  had  a  spinal  complaint,  and 
wanted  a  reader  and  companion,  felt  quite  sure  that  Maggie's 
mind  must  be  of  a  quality  with  which  she,  for  her  part,  could 
not  risk  any  contact.  Why  did  not  Miss  Tulliver  accept  the 
shelter  offered  her  by  her  aunt  Glegg  ?  —  it  did  not  become  a 
girl  like  her  to  refuse  it.  Or  else,  why  did  she  not  go  out  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  get  a  situation  where  she  was  not  known  ? 
(It  was  not,  apparently,  of  so  much  importance  that  she  should 
carry  her  dangerous  tendencies  into  strange  families  unknown 
at  St.  Ogg's.)  She  must  be  very  bold  and  hardened  to  wish  to 
stay  in  a  parish  where  she  was  so  much  stared  at  and  whis- 
pered about. 

Dr.  Kenn,  having  great  natural  firmness,  began,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  opposition,  as  every  firm  man  would  have  done,  to 


THE   FINAL  EESCUE.  541 

contract  a  certain  strength  of  determination  over  and  above 
what  would  have  been  called  forth  by  the  end  in  view.  Ho 
himself  wanted  a  daily  governess  for  his  younger  children; 
and  though  he  had  hesitated  in  the  first  instance  to  offer  this 
position  to  Maggie,  the  resolution  to  protest  with  the  utmost 
force  of  his  personal  and  priestly  character  against  her  being 
crushed  and  driven  away  by  slander,  was  now  decisive.  Mag- 
gie gratefully  accepted  an  employment  that  gave  her  duties  as 
well  as  a  support :  her  days  would  be  filled  now,  and  solitary 
evenings  would  be  a  welcome  rest.  She  no  longer  needed  the 
sacrifice  her  mother  made  in  staying  with  her,  and  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver  was  persuaded  to  go  back  to  the  Mill. 

But  now  it  began  to  be  discovered  that  Dr.  Kenn,  exemplary 
as  he  had  hitherto  appeared,  had  his  crotchets  —  possibly  his 
weaknesses.  The  masculine  mind  of  St.  Ogg's  smiled  pleas- 
antly,  and  did  not  wonder  that  Kenn  liked  to  see  a  fine  pair  of 
eyes  daily,  or  that  he  was  inclined  to  take  so  lenient  a  view 
of  the  past ;  the  feminine  mind,  regarded  at  that  period  as 
less  powerful,  took  a  more  melancholy  view  of  the  case.  If 
Dr.  Kenn  should  be  beguiled  into  marrying  that  Miss  Tulli- 
ver  !  It  was  not  safe  to  be  too  confident,  even  about  the  best  of 
men  :  an  apostle  had  fallen,  and  wept  bitterly  afterwards  ;  and 
though  Peter's  denial  was  not  a  close  precedent,  his  repentance 
was  likely  to  be. 

Maggie  had  not  taken  her  daily  walks  to  the  Rectory  for 
many  weeks,  before  the  dreadful  possibility  of  her  some  time 
or  other  becoming  the  Rector's  wife  had  been  talked  of  so  often 
in  confidence,  that  ladies  were  beginning  to  discuss  how  they 
should  behave  to  her  in  that  position.  For  Dr.  Kenn,  it  had 
been  understood,  had  sat  in  the  schoolroom  half  an  hour  one 
morning,  when  Miss  Tulliver  was  giving  her  lessons  ;  nay,  he 
had  sat  there  every  morning :  he  had  once  walked  home  with 
her  —  he  almost  always  walked  home  with  her —  and  if  not,  he 
went  to  see  her  in  the  evening.  What  an  artful  creature  she 
was  !  What  a  mother  for  those  children  !  It  was  enough  to 
make  poor  Mrs.  Kenn  turn  in  her  grave,  that  they  should  be 
put  under  the  care  of  this  girl  only  a  few  weeks  after  her 
death.     Would  he  be  so  lost  to  propriety  as  to  marry  her  before 


542  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

the  year  was  out  ?  The  masculine  mind  was  sarcastic,  and 
thought  'tiot. 

The  Miss  Guests  saw  an  alleviation  to  the  sorrow  of  witness- 
ing a  folly  in  their  Eector :  at  least  their  brother  would  be 
safe ;  and  their  knowledge  of  Stephen's  tenacity  was  a  con- 
stant ground  of  alarm  to  them,  lest  he  should  come  back  and 
marry  Maggie.  They  were  not  among  those  who  disbelieved 
their  brother's  letter  ;  but  they  had  no  confidence  in  Maggie's 
adherence  to  her  renunciation  of  him ;  they  suspected  that  she 
had  shrunk  rather  from  the  elopement  than  from  the  marriage, 
and  that  she  lingered  in  St.  Ogg's,  relying  on  his  return  to  her. 
They  had  always  thought  her  disagreeable  ;  they  now  thought 
her  artful  and  proud ;  having  quite  as  good  grounds  for  that 
judgment  as  you  and  I  probably  have  for  many  strong  opin- 
ions of  the  same  kind.  Formerly  they  had  not  altogether  de- 
lighted in  the  contemplated  match  with  Lucy,  but  now  their 
dread  of  a  marriage  between  Stephen  and  Maggie  added  its 
momentum  to  their  genuine  pity  and  indignation  on  behalf  of 
the  gentle  forsaken  girl,  in  making  them  desire  that  he  should 
return  to  her.  As  soon  as  Lucy  was  able  to  leave  home,  she 
was  to  seek  relief  from  the  oppressive  heat  of  this  August  by 
going  to  the  coast  with  the  Miss  Guests ;  and  it  was  in  their 
plans  that  Stephen  should  be  induced  to  join  them.  On  the 
very  first  hint  of  gossip  concerning  Maggie  and  Dr.  Kenn,  the 
report  was  conveyed  in  Miss  Guest's  letter  to  her  brother. 

Maggie  had  frequent  tidings  through  her  mother,  or  aunt 
Glegg,  or  Dr.  Kenn,  of  Lucy's  gradual  progress  towards  re- 
covery, and  her  thoughts  tended  continually  towards  her  uncle 
Deane's  house  :  she  hungered  for  an  interview  with  Lucy,  if 
it  were  only  for  five  minutes — to  utter  a  word  of  penitence, 
to  be  assured  by  Lucy's  own  eyes  and  lips  that  she  did  not 
believe  in  the  willing  treachery  of  those  whom  she  had  loved 
and  trusted.  But  she  knew  that  even  if  her  uncle's  indigna- 
tion had  not  closed  his  house  against  her,  the  agitation  of  such 
an  interview  would  have  been  forbidden  to  Lucy.  Only  to 
have  seen  her  without  speaking,  would  have  been  some  relief ; 
for  Maggie  was  haunted  by  a  face  cruel  in  its  very  gentleness : 
a  face  that  had  been  turned  on  hers  with  glad  sweet  looks  of 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  543 

trust  and  love  from  the  twiliglit  time  of  memory  ;  chaiig»«d 
now  to  a  sad  and  weary  face  by  a  first  heart-stroke.  And  as 
the  days  passed  on,  that  pale  image  became  more  and  more 
distinct ;  the  picture  grew  and  grew  into  more  speaking  defi- 
niteness  under  the  avenging  hand  of  remorse  ;  the  soft  luizel 
eyes,  in  their  look  of  pain,  were  bent  forever  on  Maggie,  and 
pierced  her  the  more  because  she  could  see  no  anger  in  tlu-iu. 
But  Lucy  was  not  yet  able  to  go  to  church,  or  any  placi;  whore 
Maggie  could  see  her ;  and  even  the  hope  of  that  departed, 
when  the  news  was  told  her  by  aunt  Glegg.  that  Lucy  was 
really  going  away  in  a  few  days  to  Scarborough  with  the  ]\riss 
Guests,  who  had  been  heard  to  say  that  they  expected  their 
brother  to  meet  them  there. 

Only  those  who  have  known  what  hardest  inward  conflict 
is,  can  know  what  Maggie  felt  as  she  sat  in  her  loneliness  the 
evening  after  hearing  that  news  from  Mrs.  Glegg,  —  only 
those  who  have  known  what  it  is  to  dread  their  own  selfish 
desires  as  the  watching  mother  would  dread  the  sleeping, 
potion  that  was  to  still  her  own  pain. 

She  sat  without  candle  in  the  twilight,  with  the  window 
wide  open  towards  the  river  ;  the  sense  of  oppressive  heat  add- 
ing itself  undistinguishably  to  the  burthen  of  her  lot.  Seated 
on  a  chair  against  the  window,  with  her  arm  on  the  window- 
sill,  she  was  looking  blankly  at  the  flowing  river,  swift  with 
the  backward-rushing  tide  —  struggling  to  see  still  the  sweet 
face  in  its  unreproaching  sadness,  that  seemed  now  from  mo- 
ment to  moment  to  sink  away  and  be  hidden  behind  a  form 
that  thrust  itself  between,  and  made  darkness.  Hearing  the 
door  open,  she  thought  Mrs.  Jakiu  was  coming  in  with  her 
supper,  as  usual;  and  with  that  repugnance  to  trivial  speech 
which  comes  with  languor  and  wretchedness,  she  shrank  from 
turning  round  and  saying  she  wanted  nothing:  good  little 
Mrs.  Jakin  would  be  sure  to  make  some  well-meant  remarks. 
But  the  next  moment,  without  her  having  discerned  the  sound 
of  a  footstep,  she  felt  a  light  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  heard 
a  voice  close  to  her  saying,  "  Maggie  ! " 

The  face  was  there  —  changed,  but  all  the  sweeter:  the 
hazel  eyes  were  there,  with  their  heart-piercing  tenderness. 


644  THE   MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  Maggie  !  "  the  soft  voice  said.  "  Lucy  !  "  answered  a  voice 
with  a  sharp  ring  of  anguish  in  it ;  and  Lucy  threw  her  arms 
round  Maggie's  neck,  and  leaned  her  pale  cheek  against  the 
burning  brow. 

"  I  stole  out,"  said  Lucy,  almost  in  a  whisper,  while  she 
sat  down  close  to  Maggie  and  held  her  hand,  ''  when  papa  and 
the  rest  were  away.  Alice  is  come  with  me.  I  asked  her  to 
help  me.  But  I  must  only  stay  a  little  while,  because  it  is  so 
late." 

It  was  easier  to  say  that  at  first  than  to  say  anything  else. 
They  sat  looking  at  each  other.  It  seemed  as  if  the  interview 
must  end  without  more  speech,  for  speech  was  very  difficult. 
Each  felt  that  there  would  be  something  scorching  in  the 
words  that  would  recall  the  irretrievable  wrong.  But  soon,  as 
Maggie  looked,  every  distinct  thought  began  to  be  overflowed  by 
a  wave  of  loving  penitence,  and  words  burst  forth  with  a  sob. 

"  God  bless  you  for  coming,  Lucy." 

The  sobs  came  thick  on  each  other  after  that. 

"  Maggie,  dear,  be  comforted,"  said  Lucy  now,  putting  her 
cheek  against  Maggie's  again.  ''  Don't  grieve."  And  she  sat 
still,  hoping  to  soothe  Maggie  with  that  gentle  caress. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  deceive  you,  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  as  soon 
as  she  could  speak.  "  It  always  made  me  wretched  that  I  felt 
what  I  did  n't  like  you  to  know.  ...  It  was  because  I  thought 
it  would  all  be  conquered,  and  jon  might  never  see  anything 
to  wound  you." 

"  I  know,  dear,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  know  you  never  meant  to 
make  me  unhappy.  .  .  .  It  is  a  trouble  that  has  come  on  us  all : 

—  you  have  more  to  bear  than  I  have  —  and  you  gave  him  up, 
when  .  .  .  you  did  what  it  must  have  been  very  hard  to  do." 

They  were  silent  again  a  little  while,  sitting  with  clasped 
hands,  and  cheeks  leaned  together. 

"  Lucy,"  Maggie  began  again,  "  lie  struggled  too.  He  wanted 
to  be  true  to  you.     He  Avill  come  back  to  you.     Forgive  him 

—  he  will  be  happy  then  —  " 

These  words  were  wrung  forth  from  Maggie's  deepest  soul, 
with  an  effort  like  the  convulsed  clutch  of  a  drowning  man. 
Lucy  trembled  and  was  silent. 


Lucy  and  >r»cTP.. 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  545 

A  gentle  knock  came  at  the  door.  It  was  Alice,  tlie  maid, 
who  entered  and  said  — 

« I  dare  n't  stay  any  longer,  Miss  Deane.  They  '11  find  it 
out,  and  there  '11  be  such  anger  at  your  coming  out  so  late." 

Lucy  rose  and  said,  "  Very  well,  Alice  —  in  a  minute." 

"I'm  to  go  away  on  Friday,  Maggie,"  she  added,  when 
Alice  had  closed  the  door  again.  "  When  I  coinc  back,  and 
am  strong,  they  will  let  me  do  as  I  like.  I  shall  come  to  you 
when  I  please  then." 

"  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  with  another  great  effort,  « I  pray  to 
God  continually  that  I  may  never  be  the  cause  of  sorrow  to 
you  any  more." 

She  pressed  the  little  hand  that  she  held  between  hers,  and 
looked  up  into  the  face  that  was  bent  over  hers.  Lucy  never 
forgot  that  look. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  that  had  the  solemnity  of 
confession  in  it,  "  you  are  better  than  I  am.     I  can't  —  " 

She  broke  off  there,  and  said  no  more.  But  they  clasped 
each  other  again  in  a  last  embrace. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   LAST   CONFLICT. 

In  the  second  week  of  September,  Maggie  was  again  sitting 
in  her  lonely  room,  battling  with  the  old  shadowy  enemies 
that  were  forever  slain  and  rising  again.  It  was  past  mid- 
night, and  the  rain  was  beating  heavily  against  the  window, 
driven  with  fitful  force  by  the  rushing,  loud-moaning  wind. 
For,  the  day  after  Lucy's  visit,  there  had  been  a  sudden  cliange 
in  the  weather  :  the  heat  and  drought  had  given  way  to  cold 
variable  winds,  and  heavy  falls  of  rain  at  intervals ;  aud  she 
had  been  forbidden  to  risk  the  contemplated  journey  until  the 
weather  should  become  more  settled.  In  the  counties  higher 
up  the  Floss,  the  rains  had  been  continuous,  and  the  comple- 
tion of  the  harvest  had  been  arrested.     And  now,  for  the  last 

VOL.    II. 


546  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

two  days,  the  rains  on  this  lower  course  of  the  river  had  beeB 
incessant,  so  that  the  old  men  had  shaken  their  heads  and 
talked  of  sixty  years  ago,  when  the  same  sort  of  weather, 
happening  about  the  equinox,  brought  on  the  great  floods, 
which  swept  the  bridge  away,  and  reduced  the  town  to  great 
misery.  But  the  younger  generation,  who  had  seen  several 
small  floods,  thought  lightly  of  these  sombre  recollections  and 
forebodings  ;  and  Bob  Jakin,  naturally  prone  to  take  a  hope- 
ful view  of  his  own  luck,  laughed  at  his  mother  when  she 
regretted  their  having  taken  a  house  by  the  riverside  ;  observ- 
ing that  but  for  that  they  would  have  had  no  boats,  which 
were  the  most  lucky  of  j^ossessions  in  case  of  a  flood  that 
obliged  them  to  go  to  a  distance  for  food. 

But  the  careless  and  the  fearful  were  alike  sleeping  in  their 
beds  now.  There  was  hope  that  the  rain  would  abate  by  the 
morrow ;  threatenings  of  a  worse  kind,  from  sudden  thaws 
after  falls  of  snow,  had  often  passed  off  in  the  experience  of 
the  younger  ones ;  and  at  the  very  worst,  the  banks  would  be 
sure  to  break  lower  down  the  river  when  the  tide  came  in 
with  violence,  and  so  the  waters  would  be  carried  off,  without 
causing  more  than  temporary  inconvenience,  and  losses  that 
would  be  felt  only  by  the  poorer  sort,  whom  charity  would 
relieve. 

All  were  in  their  beds  now,  for  it  was  past  midnight :  all 
except  some  solitary  watchers  such  as  Maggie.  She  was 
seated  in  her  little  parlor  towards  the  river  with  one  candle, 
that  left  everything  dim  in  the  room,  except  a  letter  which 
lay  before  her  on  the  table.  That  letter  which  had  come  to 
her  to-day,  was  one  of  the  causes  that  had  kept  her  up  far 
on  into  the  night  —  unconscious  how  the  hours  were  going  — 
careless  of  seeking  rest  —  with  no  image  of  rest  coming  across 
her  mind,  except  of  that  far,  far  off  rest,  from  which  there 
would  be  no  more  waking  for  her  into  this  struggling  earthly 
life. 

Two  days  before  Maggie  received  that  letter,  she  had  been 
to  the  Eectory  for  the  last  time.  The  heavy  rain  would  have 
prevented  her  from  going  since ;  but  there  was  another  reason. 
Dr.  Kenn,  at  first  enlightened  only  by  a  few  hints  as  to  the 


I 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  .'■)47 

new  turn  which  gossip  and  slander  had  taken  in  relation  to 
Maggie,  had  recently  been  made  more  fully  aware  of  it  by  an 
earnest  remonstrance  from  one  of  his  male  parishioners  against 
the  indiscretion  of  persisting  in  the  attempt  to  overcome  the 
prevalent  feeling  in  tlie  parish  by  a  course  of  resistance.  Dr. 
Kenn,  having  a  conscience  void  of  offence  in  the  matter,  was 
still  inclined  to  persevere  —  was  still  averse  to  give  way 
before  a  public  sentiment  that  was  odious  and  contemptible ; 
but  he  was  finally  wrought  upon  by  the  consideration  of  the 
peculiar  responsibility  attached  to  his  office,  of  avoiding  the 
appearance  of  evil  — an  "appearance  "  that  is  always  depend- 
ent on  the  average  quality  of  surrounding  minds.  Where 
these  minds  are  low  and  gross,  the  area  of  that  "  appearance  " 
is  proportionately  widened.  Perhaps  he  was  in  danger  of 
acting  from  obstinacy  ;  perhaps  it  was  his  duty  to  succuml) : 
conscientious  people  are  apt  to  see  their  duty  in  that  which 
is  the  most  painful  course  ;  and  to  recede  Avas  always  painful 
to  Dr.  Kenn.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  advise 
Maggie  to  go  away  from  St.  Ogg's  for  a  time  ;  and  he  per- 
formed that  difficult  task  with  as  much  delicacy  as  he  could, 
only  stating  in  vague  terms  that  he  found  his  attempt  to 
countenance  her  stay  was  a  source  of  discord  between  himself 
and  his  parishioners,  that  was  likely  to  obstruct  his  usefulness 
as  a  clergyman.  He  begged  her  to  allow  him  to  write  to  a 
clerical  friend  of  his,  who  might  possibly  take  her  into  his 
own  family  as  governess  ;  and,  if  not,  would  probably  know 
of  some  other  available  position  for  a  young  woman  in  whose 
welfare  Dr.  Kenn  felt  a  strong  interest. 

Poor  Maggie  listened  with  a  trembling  lip :  she  could  say 
nothing  but  a  faint  "  thank  you  —  I  shall  be  grateful ;  "  and 
she  walked  back  to  her  lodgings,  through  the  driving  rain, 
with  a  new  sense  of  desolation.  She  must  be  a  lonely  wan- 
derer ;  she  must  go  out  among  fresh  faces,  that  would  look  at 
her  wonderingly,  because  the  days  did  not  seem  joyful  to  her; 
she  must  begin  a  new  life,  in  which  she  would  have  to  rouse 
herself  to  receive  new  impressions  —  and  she  was  so  unspeak- 
ably, sickeningly  weary !  There  was  no  home,  no  help  for  the 
erring :  even  those  who  pitied  were  constrained  to  hardness. 


648  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

But  ought  she  to  complain  ?  Ought  she  to  shrink  in  this  way 
from  the  long  penance  of  life,  which  was  all  the  possibility 
she  had  of  lightening  the  load  to  some  other  sufferers,  and  so 
changing  that  passionate  error  into  a  new  force  of  unseliish 
human  love  ?  All  the  next  day  she  sat  in  her  lonely  room, 
with  a  window  darkened  by  the  cloud  and  the  driving  rain, 
thinking  of  that  future,  and  wrestling  for  patience  :  —  for  what 
repose  could  poor  Maggie  ever  win  except  by  wrestling  ? 

And  on  the  third  day  —  this  day  of  which  she  had  just  sat 
out  the  close  —  the  letter  had  come  which  was  lying  on  the 
table  before  her. 

The  letter  was  from  Stephen.  He  was  come  back  from 
Holland :  he  was  at  Mudport  again,  unknown  to  any  of  his 
friends  ;  and  had  written  to  her  from  that  place,  enclosing  the 
letter  to  a  person  whom  he  trusted  in  St.  Ogg's.  From  begin- 
ning to  end  it  was  a  passionate  cry  of  reproach  :  an  appeal 
against  her  useless  sacrifice  of  him  —  of  herself :  against  that 
perverted  notion  of  right  which  led  her  to  crush  all  his  hopes, 
for  the  sake  of  a  mere  idea,  and  not  any  substantial  good  — 
his  hopes,  whom  she  loved,  and  who  loved  her  with  that  single 
overpowering  passion,  that  worship,  which  a  man  never  gives 
to  a  woman  more  than  once  in  his  life. 

"  They  have  written  to  me  that  you  are  to  marry  Kenn.  As 
if  I  should  believe  that !  Perhaps  they  have  told  you  some 
such  fables  about  me.  Perhaps  they  tell  you  I've  been 
'  travelling.'  My  body  has  been  dragged  about  somewhere ; 
but  /have  never  travelled  from  the  hideous  place  where  you 
left  me  —  where  I  started  up  from  the  stupor  of  helpless  rage 
to  find  you  gone. 

"  Maggie  !  whose  pain  can  have  been  like  mine  ?  Whose 
injury  is  like  mine  ?  Who  besides  me  has  met  that  long  look 
of  love  that  has  burnt  itself  into  my  soul,  so  that  no  other 
image  can  come  there  ?  Maggie,  call  me  back  to  you  !  —  call 
me  back  to  life  and  goodness  !  I  am  banished  from  both  now. 
I  have  no  motives :  I  am  indifferent  to  everything.  Two 
months  have  only  deepened  the  certainty  that  I  can  never 
care  for  life  without  you.  Write  me  one  word  —  say  '  Come  ! ' 
In  two  days  I  should  be  with  you.     Maggie  —  have  you  for- 


THE  FINAL  liESCUE.  549 

gotten  what  it  was  to  be  together  ?  —  to  be  within  reach  of  a 
look  —  to  be  within  hearing  of  each  other's  voice  ?  " 

When  Maggie  first  read  this  letter  she  felt  as  if  her  real 
temptation  had  only  just  begun.  At  the  entrance  of  the  chill 
dark  cavern,  we  turn  with  unworn  courage  from  the  warm 
light ;  but  how,  when  we  have  trodden  far  in  the  damp  dark- 
ness, and  have  begun  to  be  faint  and  weary  —  how,  if  there  is  a 
sudden  opening  above  us,  and  we  are  invited  back  again  to  the 
life-nourishing  day  ?  The  leap  of  natural  longing  from  under 
the  pressure  of  pain  is  so  strong,  that  all  less  immediate  motives 
are  likely  to  be  forgotten  —  till  the  pain  has  been  escaped  from. 

For  hours  Maggie  felt  as  if  her  struggle  had  been  in  vain. 
For  hours  every  other  thought  that  she  strove  to  summon  was 
thrust  aside  by  the  image  of  Stephen  waiting  for  the  single 
word  that  would  bring  him  to  her.  She  did  not  read  the 
letter:  she  heard  him  uttering  it,  and  the  voice  shook  her 
with  its  old  strange  power.  All  the  day  before  she  had  been 
filled  with  the  vision  of  a  lonely  future  through  which  she 
must  carry  the  burthen  of  regret,  upheld  only  by  clinging 
faith.  And  here  —  close  within  her  reach  —  urging  itself 
upon  her  even  as  a  claim  —  was  another  future,  in  which  hard 
endurance  and  effort  were  to  be  exchanged  for  easy  delicious 
leaning  on  another's  loving  strength !  And  yet  that  promise 
of  joy  in  the  place  of  sadness  did  not  make  the  dire  force  of 
the  temptation  to  Maggie.  It  was  Stephen's  tone  of  misery, 
it  was  the  doubt  in  the  justice  of  her  own  resolve,  that  made 
the  balance  tremble,  and  made  her  once  start  from  her  seat  to 
reach  the  pen  and  paper,  and  write  "  Come  ! " 

But  close  upon  that  decisive  act,  her  mind  recoiled ;  and  the 
sense  of  contradiction  with  her  past  self  in  her  moments  of 
strength  and  clearness,  came  upon  her  like  a  pang  of  conscious 
degradation.  No  —  she  must  wait;  she  must  pray;  the  lii^lit 
that  had  forsaken  her  would  come  again  :  she  should  feel  again 
what  she  had  felt,  when  she  had  fled  away,  under  an  ins})ira- 
tion  strong  enough  to  conquer  agony — to  conquer  love  :  she 
should  feel  again  what  she  had  felt  when  Lucy  stood  by  her, 
when  Philip's  letter  had  stirred  all  the  fibres  that  bound  her 
to  the  calmer  past. 


550  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

She  sat  quite  still,  far  on  into  the  night :  with  no  impulse 
to  change  her  attitude,  without  active  force  enough  even  for 
the  mental  act  of  prayer :  o  /  waiting  for  the  light  that 
would  surely  come  again.  P  >ame  with  the  memories  that  no 
passion  could  long  quencb  the  long  past  came  back  to  her, 
and  with  it  the  fountains  A  self-renouncing  pity  and  affection, 
of  faithfulness  and  rescive.  The  words  that  were  marked  by 
the  quiet  hand  in  the  little  old  book  that  she  had  long  ago 
learned  by  heart,  rushed  even  to  her  lips,  and  found  a  vent 
for  themselves  in  a  low  murmur  that  was  quite  lost  in  the 
loud  driving  of  the  rain  against  the  window  and  the  loud  moan 
and  roar  of  the  wind :  "  I  have  received  the  Cross,  I  have 
received  it  from  Thy  hand ;  I  will  bear  it,  and  bear  it  till 
death,  as  Thou  hast  laid  it  upon  me." 

But  soon  other  words  rose  that  could  find  no  utterance  but 
in  a  sob :  "  Forgive  me,  Stephen !  It  will  pass  away.  You 
will  come  back  to  her." 

She  took  up  the  letter,  held  it  to  the  candle,  and  let  it  burn 
slowly  on  the  hearth.  To-morrow  she  would  write  to  him  the 
;st  word  of  parting. 

"  I  will  bear  it,  and  bear  it  till  death.  .  .  .  But  how  long 
it  will  be  before  death  comes  !  I  am  so  young,  so  healthy. 
How  shall  I  have  patience  and  strength  ?  Am  I  to  struggle 
and  fall  and  repent  again  ?  —  has  life  other  trials  as  hard  for 
me  still  ?  " 

With  that  cry  of  self-despair,  Maggie  fell  on  her  knees 
against  the  table,  and  buried  her  sorrow-stricken  face.  Her 
soul  went  out  to  the  Unseen  Pity  that  would  be  with  her  to 
the  end.  Surely  there  was  something  being  taught  her  by 
this  experience  of  great  need ;  and  she  must  be  learning  a 
secret  of  human  tenderness  and  long-suffering,  that  the  less 
erring  could  hardly  know  ?  "  Oh,  God,  if  my  life  is  to  be  long, 
let  me  live  to  bless  and  comfort  —  " 

At  that  moment  Maggie  felt  a  startling  sensation  of  sudden 
cold  about  her  knees  and  feet :  it  was  water  flowing  under 
her.  She  started  up :  the  stream  was  flowing  under  the  door 
that  led  into  the  passage.  She  was  not  bewildered  for  an 
instant  —  she  knew  ii    .vas  the  flood  ! 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  rM 

The  tumult  of  emotion  she  had  been  enduring  for  the  hist 
twelve  hours  seemed  to  have  left  a  great  calm  in  her  :  without 
screaming,  she  hurried  with  the  candle  up-stairs  to  Bob  Jakiu'g 
be^lroom.  The  door  was  ajar ;  she  went  in  and  shook  him  by 
the  shoulder. 

"  Bob,  the  flood  is  come  !  it  is  in  the  house !  let  us  see  if  we 
can  make  the  boats  safe." 

She  lighted  his  candle,  while  the  poor  wife,  snatching  up 
her  baby,  burst  into  screams ;  and  then  she  hurried  down 
again  to  see  if  the  waters  were  rising  fast.  There  was  a  step 
down  into  the  room  at  the  door  leading  from  the  staircase ; 
she  saw  that  the  water  was  already  on  a  level  with  the  step. 
While  she  was  looking,  something  came  with  a  tremendous 
crash  against  the  window,  and  sent  the  leaded  panes  and  the 
old  wooden  framework  inwards  in  shivers,  —  the  water  pour- 
ing in  after  it. 

"It  is  the  boat ! "  cried  Maggie.  "Bob,  come  down  to  get 
the  boats!" 

And  without  a  moment's  shudder  of  fear,  she  plunged 
through  the  water,  which  was  rising  fast  to  her  knees,  and  by 
the  glimmering  light  of  the  candle  she  had  left  on  the  stairs, 
she  mounted  on  the  window-sill,  and  crept  into  the  boat,  which 
was  left  with  the  prow  lodging  and  protruding  through  the 
window.  Bob  was  not  long  after  her,  hurrying  without 
shoes  or  stockings,  but  with  the  lanthorn  in  his  hand. 

"Why,  they're  both  here  — both  the  boats,"  said  Bob,  as  he 
got  into  the  one  where  Maggie  was.  "It's  wonderful  this 
fastening  is  n't  broke  too,  as  well  as  the  mooring." 

In  the  excitement  of  getting  into  the  other  boat,  unfastening 
it,  and  mastering  an  oar,  Bob  was  not  struck  with  the  danger 
Maggie  incurred.  We  are  not  apt  to  fear  for  the  fearless, 
when  we  are  companions  in  their  danger,  and  Bob's  mind  was 
absorbed  in  possible  expedients  for  the  safety  of  the  helpless 
indoors.  The  fact  that  Maggie  had  been  up,  had  waked  him, 
and  bad  taken  the  lead  in  activity,  gave  Bob  a  vague  impression 
of  her  as  one  who  would  help  to  protect,  not  need  to  be  protected. 
She  too  had  got  possession  of  an  oar,  and  had  pushed  off,  so 
as  to  release  the  boat  from  the  overhanging  window-frame. 


552  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  The  water  's  rising  so  fast/'  said  Bob,  "  I  doubt  it  '11  be 
in  at  the  chambers  before  long  —  th'  house  is  so  low.  I  've 
more  mind  to  get  Prissy  and  the  child  and  the  mother  into 
the  boat,  if  I  could,  and  trusten  to  the  water  —  for  th'  old 
house  is  none  so  safe.  And  if  I  let  go  the  boat  .  .  ,  but  ?/o?i/' 
he  exclaimed,  suddenly  lifting  the  light  of  his  lanthorn  on 
Maggie,  as  she  stood  in  the  rain  with  the  oar  in  her  hand  and 
her  black  hair  streaming. 

Maggie  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  a  new  tidal  current 
swept  along  the  line  of  the  houses,  and  drove  both  the  boats 
out  on  to  the  wide  water,  with  a  force  that  carried  them  far 
past  the  meeting  current  of  the  river. 

In  the  first  moments  Maggie  felt  nothing,  thought  of  noth- 
ing, but  that  she  had  suddenly  passed  away  from  that  life 
which  she  had  been  dreading  :  it  was  the  transition  of  death, 
without  its  agony  —  and  she  was  alone  in  the  darkness  with 
God. 

The  whole  thing  had  been  so  rapid  —  so  dreamlike  —  that 
the  threads  of  ordinary  association  were  broken  :  she  sank 
down  on  the  seat  clutching  the  oar  mechanically,  and  for  a 
long  while  had  no  distinct  conception  of  her  position.  The 
first  thing  that  waked  her  to  fuller  consciousness  was  the 
cessation  of  the  rain,  and  a  perception  that  the  darkness  was 
divided  by  the  faintest  light,  which  parted  the  overhanging 
gloom  from  the  immeasurable  watery  level  below.  She  was 
driven  out  upon  the  flood  :  —  that  awful  visitation  of  God 
which  her  father  used  to  talk  of  —  which  had  made  the  night- 
mare of  her  childish  dreams.  And  with  that  thought  there 
rushed  in  the  vision  of  the  old  home  —  and  Tom  —  and  her 
mother  —  they  had  all  listened  together. 

"  Oh,  God,  where  am  I  ?  Which  is  the  way  home  ?  "  she 
cried  out,  in  the  dim  loneliness. 

What  was  happening  to  them  at  the  Mill  ?  The  flood  had 
once  nearly  destroyed  it.  They  might  be  in  danger  —  in 
distress  :  her  mother  and  her  brother,  alone  there,  beyond 
reach  of  help  !  Her  M'^hole  soul  was  strained  now  on  that 
thought ;  and  she  saw  the  long-loved  faces  looking  for  help 
into  the  darkness,  and  finding  none. 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  .^53 

She  was  floating  in  smooth  water  now  — perhaps  far  on  the 
over-flooded  fields.  There  was  no  sense  of  present  danger  to 
check  the  outgoing  of  her  mind  to  the  old  home  ;  and  she 
strained  her  eyes  against  the  curtain  of  gloom  that  she  might 
seize  the  first  sight  of  her  whereabout  —  that  she  might  catch 
some  faint  suggestion  of  the  spot  towards  which  alfher  anx- 
ieties tended. 

Oh,  how  welcome,  the  widening  of  that  dismal  watery  level 
—  the  gradual  uplifting  of  the  cloudy  firmament  —  the  slowly 
defining  blackness  of  objects  above  the  glassy  dark !  Yes  — 
she  must  be  out  on  the  fields  —  those  were  the  tops  of  hedge- 
row trees.  Which  way  did  the  river  lie  ?  Looking  beliind 
her,  she  saw  the  lines  of  black  trees  :  looking  before  her,  there 
were  none  :  then,  the  river  lay  before  her.  She  seized  an  oar 
and  began  to  paddle  the  boat  forward  with  the  energy  of 
wakening  hope :  the  dawning  seemed  to  advance  more  swiftly, 
now  she  was  in  action  ;  and  she  could  soon  see  the  poor  dumb 
beasts  crowding  piteously  on  a  mound  where  they  had  taken 
refuge.  Onward  she  paddled  and  rowed  by  turns  in  the  grow- 
ing twilight :  her  wet  clothes  clung  round  her,  and  her  stream- 
ing hair  was  dashed  about  by  the  wind,  but  she  was  hardly 
conscious  of  any  bodily  sensations  —  except  a  sensation  of 
strength,  inspired  by  mighty  emotion.  Along  with  the  sense 
of  danger  and  possible  rescue  for  those  long-remembered  be- 
ings at  the  old  home,  there  was  an  undefined  sense  of  recon- 
cilement with  her  brother :  what  quarrel,  what  harshness, 
what  unbelief  in  each  other  can  subsist  in  the  presence  of  a 
great  calamity,  when  all  the  artificial  vesture  of  our  life  is 
gone,  and  we  are  all  one  with  each  other  in  primitive  mortal 
needs  ?  Vaguely,  Maggie  felt  this ;  —  in  the  strong  resurgent 
love  towards  her  brother  that  swept  away  all  the  later  im- 
pressions of  hard,  cruel  offence  and  misunderstanding,  and 
left  only  the  deep,  underlying,  unshakable  memories  of  early 
union. 

But  now  there  was  a  large  dark  mass  in  the  distance,  and 
near  to  her  Maggie  could  discern  the  current  of  the  river. 
The  dark  mass  must  be  —  yes,  it  was  —  St.  Ogg's.  Ah,  now 
she  knew  which  way  to  look  for  the  first  glimpse  of  the  well- 


554  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

known  trees  —  the  gray  willows,  the  now  yellowing  chestnuts 
—  and  above  them  the  old  roof !  But  there  was  no  color,  no 
shape  yet :  all  was  faint  and  dim.  More  and  more  strongly 
the  energies  seemed  to  come  and  put  themselves  forth,  as  if 
her  life  were  a  stored-up  force  that  was  being  spent  in  this 
hour,  unneeded  for  any  future. 

She  must  get  her  boat  into  the  current  of  the  Floss,  else 
she  would  never  be  able  to  pass  the  Eipple  and  approach  the 
house  :  this  was  the  thought  that  occurred  to  her,  as  she 
imagined  with  more  and  more  vividness  the  state  of  things 
round  the  old  home.  But  then  she  might  be  carried  very  far 
down,  and  be  unable  to  guide  her  boat  out  of  the  current 
again.  For  the  first  time  distinct  ideas  of  danger  began  to 
press  upon  her ;  but  there  was  no  choice  of  courses,  no  room 
for  hesitation,  and  she  floated  into  the  current.  Swiftly  she 
went  now,  without  effort ;  more  and  more  clearly  in  the  les- 
sening distance  and  the  growing  light  she  began  to  discern 
the  objects  that  she  knew  must  be  the  well-known  trees  and 
roofs  ;  nay,  she  was  not  far  off  a  rushing  muddy  current  that 
must  be  the  strangely  altered  Ripple. 

Great  God  !  there  were  floating  masses  in  it,  that  might 
dash  against  her  boat  as  she  passed,  and  cause  her  to  perish 
too  soon.     What  were  those  masses  ? 

For  the  first  time  Maggie's  heart  began  to  beat  in  an  agony  of 
dread.  She  sat  helpless  — dimly  conscious  that  she  was  being 
floated  along  —  more  intensely  conscious  of  the  anticipated 
clash.  But  the  horror  was  transient :  it  passed  away  before 
the  oncoming  warehouses  of  St.  Ogg's :  she  had  passed  the 
mouth  of  the  Ripple,  then:  notv,  she  must  use  all  her  skill 
and  power  to  manage  the  boat  and  get  it  if  possible  out  of  the 
current.  She  could  see  now  that  the  bridge  was  broken  down : 
she  could  see  the  masts  of  a  stranded  vessel  far  out  over  the 
watery  field.  But  no  boats  were  to  be  seen  moving  on  the 
river  —  such  as  had  been  laid  hands  on  were  employed  in 
the  flooded  streets. 

With  new  resolution,  Maggie  seized  her  oar,  and  stood  up 
Egain  to  paddle ;  but  the  now  ebbing  tide  added  to  the  swift- 
ness of  the  river,  and  she  was  carried  along  beyond  the  bridge. 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  555 

She  could  hear  shouts  from  the  windows  overlooking  tlie 
river,  as  if  the  people  there  were  calling  to  her.  It  was  not 
till  she  had  passed  on  nearly  to  Tofton  that  she  could  get  the 
boat  clear  of  the  current.  Then  with  one  yearning  look 
towards  her  uncle  Deane's  house  that  lay  farther  down  the 
river,  she  took  to  both  her  oars  and  rowed  with  all  her  might 
across  the  watery  fields,  back  towards  the  j\Iill.  Color  waa 
beginning  to  awake  now,  and  as  she  approached  the  Dorlcote 
fields,  she  could  discern  the  tints  of  the  trees  —  could  see  the 
old  Scotch  firs  far  to  the  right,  and  the  home  chestnuts  — oh, 
how  deep  they  lay  in  the  water  !  deeper  than  the  trees  on  this 
side  the  hill.  And  the  roof  of  the  Mill  —  where  was  it? 
Those  heavy  fragments  hurrying  down  the  Hippie  —  wliat 
had  they  meant  ?  But  it  w^as  not  the  house  —  the  house 
stood  firm  :  drowned  up  to  the  first  story,  but  still  firm  —  or 
was  it  broken  in  at  the  end  towards  the  Mill  ? 

With  panting  joy  that  she  was  there  at  last — joy  that  over- 
came all  distress  —  Maggie  neared  the  front  of  the  house. 
At  first  she  heard  no  sound:  she  saw  no  object  moving.  Her 
boat  was  on  a  level  with  the  up-stairs  window.  She  called  out 
in  a  loud  piercing  voice  — 

"  Tom,  where  are  you  ?  Mother,  where  are  you  ?  Here  is 
Maggie ! " 

Soon,  from  the  window  of  the  attic  in  the  central  gable, 
she  heard  Tom's  voice  : 

"  Who  is  it  ?     Have  you  brought  a  boat  ?  " 
"  It  is  I,  Tom  —  Maggie.     Where  is  mother  ?  " 
"  She  is  not  here :  she  went  to  Garum,  the  day  before  yes- 
terday.    I  '11  come  down  to  the  lower  window." 

"  Alone,  Maggie  ?  "  said  Tom,  in  a  voice  of  deep  astonishment, 
as  he  opened  the  middle  window  on  a  level  with  the  boat. 

"  Yes,  Tom  :  God  has  taken  care  of  me,  to  bring  me  to  you. 
Get  in  quickly.     Is  there  no  one  else  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  stepping  into  the  boat,  "  I  fear  the  man 
is  drowned :  he  was  carried  down  the  Eipple,  I  think,  when 
part  of  the  Mill  fell  with  the  crash  of  trees  and  stones  against 
it :  I  've  shouted  again  and  again,  and  there  has  been  d» 
answer.     Give  me  the  oars,  Maggie." 


556  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

It  was  not  till  Tom  had  pushed  off  and  they  were  on  the 
wide  water  —  he  face  to  face  with  Maggie  —  that  the  full 
meaning  of  what  had  happened  rushed  upon  his  mind.  It 
came  with  so  overpowering  a  force  —  it  was  such  a  new  reve- 
lation to  his  spirit,  of  the  depths  in  life,  that  had  lain  beyond 
his  vision  which  he  had  fancied  so  keen  and  clear  —  that  he 
WSiS  unable  to  ask  a  question.  They  sat  mutely  gazing  at  each 
other :  Maggie  with  eyes  of  intense  life  looking  out  from 
a  weary,  beaten  face  —  Tom  pale  with  a  certain  awe  and 
humiliation.  Thought  was  busy  though  the  lips  were  silent : 
and  though  he  could  ask  no  question,  he  guessed  a  story  of 
almost  miraculous  divinely  protected  effort.  But  at  last  a 
mist  gathered  over  the  blue-gray  eyes,  and  the  lips  found  a 
■word  they  could  utter :  the  old  childish  —  "  Magsie  !  " 

Maggie  could  make  no  answer  but  a  long  deep  sob  of  that 
mysterious  wondrous  happiness  that  is  one  with  pain. 

As  soon  as  she  could  speak,  she  said,  "  We  will  go  to  Lucy, 
Tom :  we  '11  go  and  see  if  she  is  safe,  and  then  we  can  help 
the  rest." 

Tom  rowed  with  untired  vigor,  and  with  a  different  speed 
from  poor  Maggie's.  The  boat  was  soon  in  the  current  of  the 
river  again,  and  soon  they  would  be  at  Tofton. 

"  Park  House  stands  high  up  out  of  the  flood,"  said  Maggie. 
"  Perhaps  they  have  got  Lucy  there." 

Nothing  else  was  said ;  a  new  danger  was  being  carried  to- 
wards them  by  the  river.  Some  wooden  machinery  had  just 
given  way  on  one  of  the  wharves,  and  huge  fragments  were 
being  floated  along.  The  sun  was  rising  now,  and  the  wide 
area  of  watery  desolation  was  spread  out  in  dreadful  clearness 
around  them  —  in  dreadful  clearness  floated  onwards  the  hur- 
rying, threatening  masses.  A  large  company  in  a  boat  that 
was  working  its  way  along  under  the  Tofton  houses,  observed 
their  danger,  and  shouted,  "  Get  out  of  the  current !  " 

But  that  could  not  be  done  at  once,  and  Tom,  looking  before 
him,  saw  death  rushing  on  them.  Huge  fragments,  clinging 
together  in  fatal  fellowship,  made  one  wide  mass  across  the 
stream. 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  •''>''»7 

^'It  is  coming,  Maggie  !  "  Tom  said,  iu  a  deep  lioarse  vuiec, 
loosing  the  oars,  and  clasping  her. 

The  next  instant  the  boat  was  no  longer  seen  upon  tlie 
water  —  and  the  huge  mass  was  hurrying  on  in  hideous 
triumph. 

But  soon  the  keel  of  the  boat  reappeared,  a  black  speck  on 
the  golden  water. 

The  boat  reappeared  —  but  brother  and  sister  had  gone 
down  in  an  embrace  never  to  be  parted  :  living  through  again 
in  one  supreme  moment  the  days  when  they  had  clasped  their 
little  hands  in  love,  and  roamed  the  daisied  fields  together. 


CONCLUSION. 

Nature  repairs  her  ravages  —  repairs  them  with  her  sun 
shine,  and  with  human  labor.  Tae  desolation  wrought  b^^ 
that  flood  had  left  little  visible  trace  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
five  years  after.  The  fifth  autumn  was  rich  in  golden  corn- 
stacks,  rising  in  thick  clusters  among  the  distant  hedgerows ; 
the  wharves  and  warehouses  on  the  Floss  were  busy  again, 
with  echoes  of  eager  voices,  with  hopeful  lading  and  unlading. 

And  every  man  and  woman  mentioned  in  this  history  was 
still  living  —  except  those  whose  end  we  know. 

Nature  repairs  her  ravages  —  but  not  all.  The  uptorn  trees 
are  not  rooted  again;  the  parted  hills  are  left  scai-red :  if 
there  is  a  new  growth,  the  trees  are  not  the  same  as  the  old, 
and  the  hills  underneath  their  green  vesture  bear  the  marks 
of  the  past  rending.  To  the  eyes  that  have  dwelt  on  the  past, 
there  is  no  thorough  repair. 

Dorlcote  Mill  was  rebuilt.  And  Dorlcote  churchyard,— 
where  the  brick  grave  that  held  a  father  whom  we  know,  was 
found  with  the  stone  laid  prostrate  upon  it  after  the  flood,  — 
had  recovered  all  its  grassy  order  and  decent  quiet. 

Near  that  brick  grave  there  was  a  tomb  erected,  very 
-=oon  after  the  flood,  for  two  bodies  that  were  found  iu  close 


558  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

embrace ;  and  it  was  visited  at  different  moments  by  two  men 
who  both  felt  that  their  keenest  joy  and  keenest  sorrow  were 
forever  buried  there. 

One  of  them  visited  the  tomb  again  with  a  sweet  face  beside 
him  —  but  that  was  years  after. 

The  other  was  always  solitary.  His  great  companionship 
was  among  the  trees  of  the  Ked  Deeps,  where  the  buried  joy 
seemed  still  to  hover  —  like  a  revisiting  spirit. 

The  tomb  bore  the  names  of  Tom  and  Maggie  Tulliver,  and 
below  the  names  it  was  written  — 

"  In  their  death  they  were  not  divided." 


IHB  EirBw 


UC  SOUTHE  RN  RE  GlONAl  l  iRRARv  » Ar..  , » , 


AA    0(j.j-}/8  725    1; 


